iWill Always Be There
by EllaCollinsDash
Summary: Spencer receives some news that causes his life—along with Carly's—to be turned upside down. This is the story of their journey through hardship. Alternating Spencer/Carly POV. Sparly sibling love. Rated T for mild (and barely any) language and the situation in general. Happy and sad moments. Please read!
1. Halftime

**A/N: This takes place around the time of iGoodbye, but the events of iGoodbye never happened. In other words, Carly is 18 & Spencer is 30. It's Carly's senior year.**

**I'd like to apologize in advance for any inaccuracies having to do with cancer. I did a lot of research, but some of it may still be wrong.**

**I hope you enjoy the story. Please review throughout. Since I have the story completed I will be posting new chapters every other day or so. Hurray for no long waits! Thanks for reading.**

**SPENCER'S POV**

"Spencer Shay," calls the hapless nurse, clearly not enjoying her job one bit. She looks exhausted and frazzled, and gives off a sense of apathy. _I should cheer her up_, I think to myself. I hate seeing people unhappy.

"Present!" I shout with a smile, jumping out of my seat and thrusting a fist in the air. The nurse is not amused by this; her face remains straight. "Sorry," I mumble as I walk past her, shoulders slumped. She tells me to go to room 17 and have a seat. She follows me in and asks, "So why are you here today, Spencer?"

"It's my thirty-year checkup. I'm a big boy now," I say goofily, still trying to brighten her day. I get nothing but an agitated look. I try to rebound with some normal conversation and details, "I haven't really had a physical in years. And I wanted to ask Dr. Tate about some weird back pains I've been having."

"Okay. Well let's start by getting your weight. Follow me back into the hall," she says, and I do. I remove my shoes and step onto the scale. After a few seconds, it reads 158.6. "You've lost almost fifteen pounds since February," she notes monotonously as she writes on my patient sheet.

"Well I work out pretty hardcore, so makes sense," I tell her although anyone who knows me would tell you it's not true—and they would be correct.

"I'm sure you do," she says sarcastically without looking up from her paper. She doesn't use the funny sarcasm you get from a friend, but the mean sarcasm you get from someone who clearly doesn't want to talk to you.

The nurse leads me back into room 17 and I once again take my seat on the exam table. The cheap paper covering crumples as I sit and I fidget until I'm comfortable. I can tell the nurse is annoyed by the way her dead eyes are fixed on me, but I don't like her attitude and at this point have no further interest in cheering her up.

The nurse asks me some other questions that the doctor is too overqualified to ask, apparently. Do I smoke—no. Do I drink—only socially. Healthy sex life—I get lucky every once in a while. Do I eat my veggies—sure I do…

She asks me if I have any questions or concerns; I say no and she tells me Dr. Tate will be in shortly. As she walks out I say, "Thanks, have a good day," in one last attempt to get a smile or even a simple look of content on her face. Nothing.

As I sit here waiting for Dr. Tate to come in, I look around the room. I'm observing the various tools surrounding the sink and the pro-health poster that is hanging on the back of the door. _I could never be a doctor_, I think to myself.

I stare at the wall for a good minute, and start to notice all the weird pictures hanging on the plain white wall. In one corner there's a photograph of a steamboat; in another corner there's a painting of a bowl of assorted fruits; and hanging right next to the door is an animated picture of these creatures that look like some kind of dog-fish cross mutation (what the hell?). Who decorates these rooms?

I hear a knock on the door followed by a man's voice as it is being opened, "Hello, Spencer. Long time no see. How are we doing today?" asks Dr. Tate. I've been seeing him since I was 16, which was when I decided that I was too old to be seeing a pediatrician. Dr. Tate was a tall man, like myself, with graying hair and glasses. I've always liked him as my doctor. He doesn't bullshit people—he gives it to you straight. That's the way it should be.

"Hey, Dr. Tate. I'm fine, how are you?"

"Busy as hell," he says with a laugh, "November is official flu shot month, apparently." He looks at the patient sheet the nurse had before for a moment before he speaks again. "Everything looks pretty good, Spencer. You lost fifteen pounds since your last visit, I see. You been working out?"

"Yeah..." I start to say before I remember that I'm bad at lying, "well, no, actually. Not at all if I'm being honest."

Dr. Tate grins and shakes his pointer finger at me as he speaks. "I should have known. Have you made any major changes to your diet?"

"Uhhh," I think for a moment, "nope. I don't think so. Maybe I eat a little less now. I don't know."

"But you feel alright?" He asks with sincerity, something I admire in a doctor.

"Yeah, I feel great," I say, and I'm actually telling the truth. Things have been going pretty great for me lately.

"Good, that's what I like to hear. Alright, Spencer. Let's take a look at you." Dr. Tate takes my blood pressure, looks into my ears, makes me say "AHHH" as shines a light into my mouth, and does all the other annual check-up things that doctors do. "My nurse also wrote that you had a question about some back pains?"

"Yeah, it's just been kinda sore lately. I've never really felt it like this before, though. It's like a weird, random shooting pain."

"Hmm…well come over here and I'll take a peek at your back and your spine. Stand up, please," he says as I get up from the exam table, the paper completely wrinkled and ruined by now, and I stand in front of Dr. Tate. "Alright, bend over and touch your toes and tell me if and where it hurts," he orders.

I start to bend over, but I stop midway. I feel this strange pain immediately and hurts like hell. "Ow!" I say as a grab my back and wince a little.

"Where does it hurt?"

"It was kind of in the upper middle of my back," I say, still holding it.

"How often does it hurt like this?" Dr. Tate asks.

"Every once in a while it just comes, but until recently I figured it's because I'm getting older, ya know?" I explain as I straighten up again.

"Spencer, you're thirty, not fifty. I want you to take your shirt off so I can get a closer look."

I take my shirt off and toss it on the exam table. Dr. Tate takes a look and asks me to bend over again slowly. I do it again and it's still painful, but this time I don't wince.

"Hmmm."

"Do you see something wrong?" I ask with a tinge of concern in my voice.

"Spencer, I'd like to take some x-rays of your back. Particularly your spine." Dr. Tate says seriously.

"Is something wrong with it? Scoliosis or something?"

"I'm not so sure it's that. I don't want to worry you, but just to be safe x-rays need to be done. You can put your shirt back on and follow me."

I follow Dr. Tate to room 28. Another white room. There are no weird pictures in this room for me to smirk at, but there is a ginormous white x-ray machine. Dr. Tate instructs me to remove my shirt again and stand in front of the white wall. He snaps the x-ray photos and then sends me back to room 17, where I will wait for him to return with the photos and hopefully no bad news.

I sit and wait for Dr. Tate for fifteen minutes, but it feels like much longer under the circumstances, and because I'm a very impatient person. When he returns to the room, my doctor has a serious look on his face, which is never a good sign. "Here's the deal, Spencer: there's a bump located on your spine—do you see it?" he asks holding it up to the light.

I have to squint a little, but I see it. A small white _thing_ growing on my spine. "What is that?"

Dr. Tate shakes his head and responds, "I can't say for sure. In order to determine what it is specifically I'd like you to see an oncologist." He must have seen that I was confused, as I don't know specific doctor names. "A cancer doctor, Spencer."

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. "A cancer doctor? You think I have cancer?" I can't believe what he's telling me. I hope that for the first time ever, Dr. Tate is wrong.

"Unfortunately, that's what I'm leaning toward." I try to process this information with no avail. I feel a little lightheaded and don't know what to say. "I'm sorry, Spencer. I don't want to worry you without knowing for sure, but it's important that we get on top of this. Here's the number for Dr. Welsh. She's one of the best oncologists in Seattle. I advise you to make an appointment with her as soon as possible. Tell her secretary that you're one of my patients. Until then, keep an eye on it and call me if you notice any changes, feel any pain, or if you have any questions."

I nod my head and look into my doctor's eyes. I see his concern for me and as touching as that is, it makes me worry even more. "Thanks, doc." Dr. Tate pats me on the back before exiting the room. As I remain sitting on the exam table I am attempting to fathom that I, the invincible Spencer Shay, possibly have cancer.

I finally get on my feet and walk sluggishly out into the hallway. After paying the co-pay, I slink out to my car, feeling like a ghost. The first thing I do when I sit down is pull out Dr. Welsh's phone number from my pocket. I hold the slip of paper in my hands for a moment, staring at it thoughtlessly. For a split second it feels like a dream, and I am relieved. But I inevitably snap out of it, and decide to give her office a call.

* * *

When I hear my alarm sound off the next morning, I dread the thought of getting out of bed. Today is the day that I learn my fate, and that scares the hell out of me. A part of me is dying to know, but a bigger part would rather go back to sleep and get away from the idea completely. I finally drag myself out of bed to shower and get dressed.

I called Dr. Welsh's office yesterday and told them that Dr. Tate recommended her to me. It turns out that Dr. Welsh and Dr. Tate go way back. Because of this, Dr. Welsh was able to squeeze me into her early morning schedule without a problem.

My appointment is at eight o'clock so I leave extra early just to be safe. Thankfully, Carly doesn't hear me leave and I avoid her questions. I don't want her to know about this unless I know for sure what it is. I hate to worry her, or anyone else for that matter.

I manage to beat the bulk of morning traffic and arrive at Dr. Welsh's building twenty minutes early. I sit in my car and wait for a few minutes, thinking of what lies ahead of me. I know that by over thinking this I am not doing myself any favors, but I don't care. I decide that it's better to man up and face it. I open the car door and step out, ready to learn my fate.

* * *

Disbelief. Pain. A lump in my throat—or rather on my spine. This is all I feel as I skulk through the parking lot to my car. I weakly pull the door open and sit inside, slamming the door behind me. I look into my hands. I cover my face with them. Shit.

I spent the last two hours at the oncologist's. I waited in the lobby, I met Dr. Welsh, she examined me, I took the tests. They came back positive. Fuck.

Dr. Welsh—a woman with red hair and pale skin in her mid-forties—told me the news that I saw coming. I have cancer. _Cancer._

My diagnosis: Stage III _Schwannoma neurofibrosarcoma. _I can't even say it. Literally. How the hell do you say that?

Dr. Welsh opened my eyes to problems I didn't even realize I was having: night sweats, soreness in other parts of my body, loss of appetite. How could I have not seen this coming or at least thought to see a doctor sooner?

She also discussed my treatment options with me. She said that my best bet is chemotherapy at this stage. Otherwise I have radiation and surgery to choose between. She gave me brochures on all three options and is having me give her my choice tomorrow. She says that we should begin treatment as soon as possible.

The person I think of next tears me apart: Carly. The idea of telling her about this makes me sick, but I know I have to do it. I think it would be best to do it later rather than sooner because I hate to see the kid sad and worrisome. I know that I can't lie and I can't act, but I will have to for her sake.

As I start the car and emerge from my parking spot I try to leave my illness, my shock, my depression, and my fears behind for the day and move on.

Nothing.


	2. Best Friends, Right?

**CARLY'S POV**

Just as my toast pops up from the toaster, I hear the front door swing open. I jump at both things.

"A little jumpy aren't we?" Spencer says with a lame smile as he throws his jacket on the couch. He left early this morning without telling me where he was going.

"Where were you? And why haven't you been answering my texts?" I yell as I angrily stomp towards him.

"Geez. Sorry, _mom_," he says as he rolls his eyes, each word dripping with sarcasm. "Socko's buddy needed help moving this morning and I couldn't say no to a friend."

"Why didn't you leave a note?" I demand.

"I didn't think to. Sorry, kiddo." I stand with my arms crossed, not letting myself give in to the apologetic tone of his voice or the puppy dog eyes that I know he is giving me on purpose. "Does somebody need a hug?" He asks in his Baby Spencer voice. I shake my head 'no', but he wraps me in his arms anyway. He is instantly forgiven, and I go back to making my sandwich.

* * *

A week and a half later, Spencer and I are watching reruns of _Celebrities Under Water._ Conan O'Brien just lasted 52 seconds. He came up gasping for air, barely able to lift himself out of the water. Amateur.

Spencer is dozing off next to me. After a few minutes, I turn to him, "Hey, Spence. Did I leave my Mall-Mart bag in your car a couple weeks ago?"

He moves around a little in his sleep, and then mumbles, "Uh, yeah. It should be in the backseat."

"Okay, thanks," I get up and grab the keys from the counter before going down to the parking garage. I pass Lewbert at his desk. He yells something incoherent at me, per usual.

I approach Spencer's car, an orange 2009 Kia Soul (the hamster commercial was the main reason he bought it), and I unlock the door. The backseat is cluttered with shopping bags and various papers in typical Spencer fashion. I rifle through the an assortment of plastic bags until I find my Mall-Mart bag. It's buried under a pile of papers and pamphlets. I set them down on the seat. At first glance, the pamphlet on top of the pile looks like it says "Depression and Cancer: How to Deal". I look back at the pile and see that my eyes were correct. I slowly flip through the others and find pamphlets called "Chemotherapy, Radiation, & Surgery: Which is Best for You?", "Coping with Cancer", and "The Idiot's Guide to Chemotherapy". Underneath the pamphlets lie papers, more about cancer, and labeled _Shay, Spencer._

_Why would these be in Spencer's car?_ I wonder before realizing the only logical reason…

Spencer has been acting strange in the past week or so, but he can't be sick. He can't be. And he would have told me about this. There has to be a reason why.

I gather the papers together and slam the car door, completely forgetting about my bag. I return to the lobby of Bushwell, Lewbert too busy admiring his wart with a pocket mirror to notice me, and I go to the apartment.

I swing the door open and see Spencer asleep on the couch where I left him. Normally I would feel a little guilty for waking him, but this is too important.

I slam the papers on top of him and he jumps awake. He picks one up in his hand and as he returns to consciousness, comprehends that I have him figured out.

"What were those doing in your car?" I ask weakly.

"Carly, sit down," he says sitting up, his voice still in sleep mode.

I sit next to him. He's looking down at his hands, thinking to himself. I just want him to talk to me. "Are you sick?" I ask.

He looks up at me sadly. My heart breaks and a lump forms in my throat as I can tell what's coming next. "Look, kiddo," he sighs, "You know how I went to get my physical last week?"

All I can manage to do is nod.

"While I was there I asked Dr. Tate about some back pains I've been having. He took some x-rays and noticed a lump growing on my spine. He referred to me to an oncologist and the next day I went." He looks like he is about to go on, but he says nothing.

"And?"

He takes a deep breath and says, "I have sch…schwanara newo…sarc," he cannot say his diagnosis. Literally.

I have tears in my eyes, but I can't help but sadly laugh at this. "You can't even say it."

He gives up on the technical name and bluntly gives it to me straight, going right for the jugular. "Carly, it's spinal cancer."

I freeze up as he says the word. _Cancer_. I knew it was coming, but hearing the words come from my brother's mouth is like being stabbed in the ears with scissors.

"When were you planning on telling me?" is what I manage to get out after a minute.

"I don't know. When I needed to, I guess. I didn't want to worry you or scare you. I just thought it was best for now…"

"I deserve to know. You're my brother—I love you more than anyone in the world. And you have to let me help you." I assert, choking back tears.

"You're right. You deserve to know. But this…this crying and worrying and wanting to help me is what I wanted to avoid."

"You're going to need me. You can't do this alone," I say as I can no longer hold back my tears, "You need me." At this Spencer grabs me and holds me in his arms. I sob on his shoulder, snot and all, but I don't care. My whole world feels like it is crashing down around me. I've lost my mother to a plane crash, my father to his work, and my grandfather to Yakima. I can't lose Spencer, too. I can't lose Spencer.

After what feels like hours, but has only been a few minutes, we pull apart. There is a big stain on Spencer's t-shirt from my tears. I've managed to compose myself slightly; the ability to hold back tears slowly coming back to me.

I have more questions to ask him. "Is it serious?" He's about to speak, but I cut him off. "Don't lie to me. I know that you'll try to sugarcoat it so I won't worry. But tell me the truth."

He nods and reconsiders what he's about to tell me. "Any cancer is pretty serious. Mine is Stage III. It sounds bad, but it's not. Trust me."

"Are the doctors going to fix it?"

"Dr. Welsh, the oncologist, says my best treatment option is chemo, so I'm going to make an appointment for that in the morning. It's going to help a lot and then I'll get better. I'm going to be okay, so don't be sad."

"Of course I'm going to be sad! That's a stupid thing to say."

"Okay, okay. Be sad if you want. But you know you're just making me sad." This makes me feel worse, and it must be obvious to him. He changes the tone of his voice from solemn and serious to cheery and says, "Come on! I'm Spencer Shay, your cool big bro! I'm invincible! Do you know how many fires I've started? And not one of them has caused damage to me."

I have to admit that this makes me smile for a split second. "Impressive," I say.

"Right?" he agrees. "But seriously, kid. It'll be okay. Give me another hug, but try not to ruin my shirt." With this I'm back in his arms. I've always cherished Spencer's hugs—ever since I was a little girl—but now they feel somewhat numbered, and I cherish them even more.

* * *

The next morning, a Monday, I feel terrible. I was up until 4 AM Zaplooking things about Spencer's diagnosis, chemotherapy, and survival statistics. Median survival rate: few to several months from the diagnosis according to Cancer Wall. Five year survival rate: 40%. _Less than half._

After that I cried myself to sleep. My eyes are still puffy, making that obvious. On top of that I didn't even attempt to fix my hair or do my makeup this morning. I'm too exhausted and delirious to try.

I enter the kitchen to grab some juice before heading off to school. Spencer is sitting at the table, eating a breakfast burrito. "Morning," he says over his shoulder as he glances toward me. He shoots his head back to me for another look. "Whoa, what happened to you? You look terrible!"

"Thanks," I say tediously, "I didn't sleep much."

"Why not?"

I snap back at him, "What do you mean 'why not'? I was up all hours reading about your stupid cancer online!" the word tastes bitter in my mouth. He stares at me and I sigh, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so mean to you."

"This is exactly why I was waiting to tell you about this. You're miserable! And you know not to Zaplook about medical stuff. You can't trust most online sources, your doctors always tell you that," he says assertively as he stands, going into 'father' mode.

"I know, but I couldn't resist."

"Look at you…you're exhausted. I feel bad for you. You can stay home today if you want," he offers. How can he feel sympathy for me when he is the one that's sick?

"It's alright. I should go to school to get my mind off this for awhile."

"That's not a bad idea," he says as he starts to return to his burrito. He turns back to me before sitting, however, and says, "Hey, do me a favor. Don't tell Sam or Freddie. Or anyone else for that matter. I don't want them knowing and judging and feeling bad for me. Can we just keep this between you and me?"

The thing I want to do more than anything is to tell Sam about this. I need her to comfort me and be my best friend. She's the one person I feel like I could break down around since I need to start acting stronger around Spencer for his sake. I reluctantly agree not to tell anyone, though it will be hard. "Okay, I won't tell them."

Spencer thanks me and hugs me again. I have a feeling that hugging will become a very prominent action around here in the coming months.

* * *

Neither Sam nor Freddie was in my first class, so I had the chance to calm myself a little bit before seeing them. However, I could by the stares of my classmates that Spencer wasn't exaggerating—I look like a wreck today.

I'm now going to my locker, where I know my best friends will be. I tell myself to stay strong and to avoid eye contact with them. I need to keep Spencer and the cancer out of my head as to restrict myself from telling them. I bottle up my feelings, my frustrations, and my weakness. I have to stay strong. I need to put it out of my head.

As I draw near my locker, I am alone. I put in my combination and quickly open it up. Maybe if I move fast enough I can avoid them both. But inevitably, I hear Sam come to her locker. "Howdy hey," she says casually as she launches into some crazy story about her mom.

I hear an "Hola," from Freddie on the other side of me. I feel the pressure coming down on me. I cannot contain my feelings. The bottle is opened. Tears well up. I hide my face the best that I can.

"Carly? Helloooo, are you listening to me at all?" Sam asks. I close my locker and reveal my face—my sad, sad face, puffy red eyes and all. Sam's expression automatically changes from annoyed to concern. "What's wrong?" Sam steps toward me. I feel Freddie put his hand on my shoulder. I feel both of their eyes burning into my skull.

I think of something else to say, but nothing pops into my head. I can't think on my feet well or lie—it's not in the Shay blood. I try to say something else for him, but it slips out instead. "Spencer has cancer."

I can't stand to be in the hall anymore. I know that my tears are about to come out in hard, violent sobs. I can't be around for that. I run to the ladies' room and I hear Sam call my name from behind me. She follows me in there and hugs me. There are other girls in the bathroom, but Sam asks them to leave—or rather, forces them to leave.

I know that Sam is confused and that she has a million questions. But she doesn't say a word. She just stands there, holding me as I sob. I'm shaking and I'm ruining her shirt, just like I ruined Spencer's the day before. But she doesn't care. She holds me, rubs my back, and calms me with her comforting 'shushes'.

Sam is the toughest girl I know. But she's also the softest. And the best friend I will ever have.

* * *

Sam sits next to me in the nurse's office, still not hammering me with questions. After I was calm enough to leave the bathroom, she escorted me to the nurse. She's missing class to be here with me—of course she doesn't mind this at all.

I have a pounding headache and my eyes are all red from the crying. I silently curse myself for not having better control of my emotions.

The nurse tells me that I can leave for the day. I decide that it's best that I leave in the state that I'm in. I should take a walk, get some fresh air.

Sam walks out of the nurse's office with me and we go to my locker. I gather my things together to leave, and I'm not surprised to see that Sam is gathering hers as well. The nurse didn't give her permission to leave, but that won't stop her from ditching school to stay with me for the day.

We walk out of school together and start to head to Bushwell. Spencer mentioned that he was attending an art class downtown today, so I know that he won't be home.

The cold late-November air is a slap in the face to my stained wet cheeks. Sam kicks the same rock around for a block as we walk. I stare at the ground. I just want to be home.

We get to Bushwell and enter the lobby. Thank goodness Lewbert isn't at his desk to say something ignorant. I might just have lost it.

At last, we are at my door. It is unlocked as always and I immediately flop down on the couch. Sam follows me in and repeats the gesture. She looks at me and finally asks me the question I've been waiting to hear her say: "Are you ready to talk?"


	3. Do Me Good

**SPENCER'S POV**

I nod my head gratefully to the car that stops to let me cross the street. My hands are full of smoothies—one for me, Carly, Sam, and Freddie. I haven't gotten any confirmation that they are at the loft right now, but I know they definitely are anyway. Carly was pretty disheveled this morning so I'm hoping a smoothie will make her smile. I would do anything to make her smile today—it's all I need.

The Groovy Smoothie is right across the street from Bushwell, so a moment later I am walking through the lobby. Lewbert shrieks, "No smoothies in the lobby!" but I have learned to ignore him by now.

I get on the elevator and hit the '8-C'. A few seconds later the doors are opening and I enter the loft. Of course, Sam and Freddie are here.

"Hey guys! Smoothie party!" I yell excitedly as I pass them out. "One for you, one for you, and one for my favorite little sister," I say, pecking her on the top of her head.

I was expecting to get a happier response from the group, but all I get from Sam and Freddie is a quiet "thanks" with a hint of sympathy and a reassuring smile. I know what's up.

"Carly told you, didn't she?" I say, eyeing them both.

They each respond with a halfhearted version of "told us what?" or "I don't know what you're talking about" but it's not enough to convince me.

I look at Carly. "Sorry," she says. She looks like she's been crying. My heart aches. Poor Carly.

This is why I didn't want her to know about all of this. She's a wreck—she shouldn't have to suffer because of something that I'm dealing with. Seeing her so sad makes me want to break down even more than I already want to thinking about my cancer alone. But I need to stay strong for her. Any sign of weakness on my part will cause her to shatter. I can't let that happen.

Another reason not to tell her: she can't keep a secret.

"It's okay. Now that I think about it it's good that they know. You'll need your friends for support."

"Spence, _you'll_ need _us_ for support," Sam pitches in, "How're you doing?"

"I'm fine," I say, not wanting to go into details with her and Freddie. The first reason being because I hate to upset more people. The second reason being because Carly probably already told them every last detail.

"Just do me one favor," I continue to Sam and Freddie, "Please don't treat me differently."

"What do you mean?" Freddie asks.

"Don't think of me as some victim. Don't try to baby me. Don't talk to me in hushed, concerned tones. And don't talk behind my back. You're both a couple of my best buds. I can't have your opinion of me changing because of this stupid thing. This is going to pass, so just do me a favor and ignore it. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam and Freddie say in unison.

I nod at them and go to my bedroom, smoothie in hand. A couple minutes later I hear someone tapping on the door.

"Come in."

It's Carly. "Hey."

"Hey, kiddo. Rough day?" I ask as she plops down beside me on the bed.

She nods solemnly, looking into her cup. "Thanks for the smoothie."

"No problem," I say with a grin.

After a moment she asks, "Are you mad at me?"

"Because you told them?" she nods her head. "Of course I'm not mad at you. I knew it would probably happen."

"But I let you down."

"No, you didn't. But if you don't stop moping around you'll be letting me down for sure."

She looks like she might start crying again, and I think I've made things worse. "I'm sorry," she apologizes again.

I need to be assertive with her to end this. "Carly, stop apologizing. Okay? Just stop. I know that it's a lot to take in all at once but I need you to accept this. I know I said that I don't need your help, but I do. I need you to keep me sane through all of this. I need you to be my rock," I pause. "You're my rock."

This time she initiates the hug. It is much needed for both of us. Lately it seems like Carly's hugs recharge me. I need them to survive.

We pull apart and there's a smile on her face. Her smile. Warm and bright and perfect. My goal for the day. All I need.

* * *

I look at the clock. 6:30 PM. At 7, Carly and the gang have to start rehearsing for tomorrow night's show. We all just finished dinner and Carly has put it on herself to do the dishes tonight. I could have done them, but she insisted. My rock.

I remember what I was supposed to tell her. "Oh, yeah...I made my first chemo appointment today," I tell Carly. And also Sam and Freddie since they're here.

"When is it?" she asks.

"December 9th."

She pauses from scrubbing a dirty plate to respond, "That's almost two weeks from now. You couldn't get a sooner appointment?"

"Dr. Welsh is very busy. She has a lot of clients so that's the soonest I could get, even with the Dr. Tate perks," I explain.

"Is that safe? Do you have two weeks to spare?" I regret telling her this as well, seeing how frantic she's getting about it.

"I'll be fine. This is nothing. Dr. Welsh would never put me at risk for anything," I assure Carly. I notice Sam and Freddie have been quiet for most of our meal. I guess they haven't processed everything yet. Either that or they are completely going against my wishes, already imagining a world where I'm gone.

Carly doesn't say a word back to me. I think she's sick of hearing the "everything's fine" spiel. Unfortunately it's all I can give her for now.

Some time has passed and tomorrow is my first session of chemo. I went against my own advice to Carly and spent the entire day on Zaplook, searching for things about my choice of treatment.

They're going to hook me up to a machine and stick a tube to my arm. They're going to pump chemicals into my body that will supposedly help me. I am going to feel sick afterwards; very sick in more ways than one. It is going to suck, but I have to go through with it.

I want more than anything to just get this over with. I want to get rid of this stupid tumor and go on with my life. I want things to go back to normal.

I can't help but feel stripped of my pride and independence as it is—over the past couple of weeks Carly has barely let me do anything by myself. She's been doing the dishes, the laundry, taking out the garbage, cleaning around the house, cooking (her food is gross, but I don't have the heart to tell her), and even making my bed—something we haven't been doing since even before I got sick. It's actually a relief when she goes off to school. I appreciate her helping me, but all that she's doing is making me feel helpless. I can't imagine how it'll be post-chemo when the sickness really kicks in.

Tomorrow morning I have my appointment. I'm calling Carly in sick from school so she can go with me. I don't want her to see me go through this, but she insisted. I have a feeling that what she'll see tomorrow will bring her right back to square one and she'll be a wreck again. It's important now more than ever that I hide any trace of weakness or despair.

I keep telling myself that this will all be over soon. It will all be over soon.


	4. Stronger Than Me

**Hey! I hope you've had a great weekend. Please do me a huge favor review with any comment you have at all! It's bumming me out that I haven't got any yet :/ but thanks to those who have followed and/or favorited! You rock :) Enjoy the chapter!**

**CARLY'S POV – Stronger Than Me**

Today is the day of Spencer's first chemotherapy session. I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his car, staring out the window at nothing in particular. We are both silent—no one has said a word for the entire car ride. In the past couple of weeks I've been able to come to terms with his cancer, but as we're on our way to his first treatment I feel sad all over again.

Sitting in my lap I have a stack of magazines, ranging from art to sports, both mine and Spencer's PearPods, and a miniature version of PakRat to help the time pass during the chemo. I didn't bring anything to distract myself during his treatment, but I know that I wouldn't be interested in it anyway.

All that I've been interested in since Spencer told me he's sick is helping him. He hasn't lifted a finger in a couple of weeks now because I've been doing absolutely everything for him. I can tell that this frustrates him, but he needs his rest. And he told me he needed me, so I'm making myself as useful as I can.

Spencer has been a bit bipolar this morning—one minute he's quiet and clearly not okay, and the next minute he's trying too hard to seem okay for me. Both sides make me feel horrible, but I don't let him know that.

We pull in to parking garage at St. Schneider's Hospital. After Spencer parks and stops the car, we get out. I fumble a little with all the things I'm carrying and realize that a bag probably would have been a good idea. Spencer grabs a few magazines off the top of my pile and carries it himself. I'm about to take them back from him, but I decide to let it go.

We get on the elevator and ride up to the fifth floor, where the oncology center is. As the doors slide open I remember just how much I hate hospitals. We walk around the corner and the first thing I see is the front desk. There's a young woman sitting there, answering the phones. We stand for a moment and wait for her to finish her call. I look around and see cancer patients roaming the halls. They're each going about their business. Some of them are with others, some are alone. Some are in wheelchairs, some walk. Some look very sickly and weak, some look perfectly healthy. I see a few of them are completely bald. I try to picture Spencer's head shaved as a result of his treatment. I don't want to anymore.

Seeing all of these people makes a huge knot in my stomach. I look at the weaker patients and all I see is Spencer a few months down the line. I want to turn around and go back home. I want this to all be some kind of twisted nightmare. But I drag my feet and follow Spencer and a nurse to a room down the hall, and the nightmare persists.

The nurse leads us to a small room with an exam table. She tells Spencer to have a seat on it as I sit in a chair across from him.

"First timer?" the chirpy young nurse asks. Spencer nods at her, but his head is somewhere else. "I'll have to do a blood test on you to begin," she says as she gathers her materials to administrate the test. I watch as she draws some of his blood, wincing at the sight. "Okay, perfect. I'll lead you to the waiting area while we get your results and prepare the drugs for your treatment."

We follow the nurse back into the hallway, passing the front desk again. She stops at the waiting area, where there are rows of cheap cushioned chairs and an old TV in the corner playing reruns of _Everybody Loves Raymond_. There are people scattered, everyone mostly avoiding each other.

"Make yourselves comfortable. It should be a couple of hours at least until everything is set for you. Mr. Shay, I recommend that you visit the cafeteria soon for a snack. It's important that you eat and drink something before your treatment if you haven't already."

"Sounds good, thanks," Spencer says. Our nurse smiles and turns away, off to do her work.

Spencer seats himself in a floral print chair near the center of the room. I sit beside him and instantly remind him of what the nurse said, "Are you gonna go get something to eat? I can get it for you."

"I already ate this morning, and I have my water bottle. I'm set," he responds calmly. I can tell that he's scared and he's trying to hide it, but I see right through him.

I debate whether or not I should ask him this, but ultimately decide to do so. "Are you scared?"

He looks me blankly in the eye and says, "No. I'm a little nervous because I don't know what to expect, but it'll do me good."

I nod in agreement and then it's quiet between us for a few minutes. He looks bored so I hand him his PakRat game. He takes it in his hand like a little child—excited and greedy. I see the gleeful look on his face and silently pat myself on the back for bringing the game with us. Seeing him preoccupied makes me feel like I can relax for a little while. I decide to rest my eyes, and before I know it I am sound asleep on Spencer's shoulder, escaping this nightmare for the time being.

* * *

Suddenly I am jolted awake by Spencer. My eyes find the clock in the room: three hours have passed since we were brought to the waiting area. Our nurse has returned and is ready to take us to the main event: the treatment center.

She leads us down a different hallway this time. I glance into a few different rooms we pass along the way. Inside of them I see cancer patients sitting in reclining chairs with various tubes attached to their arms. That will be Spencer in just a matter of minutes.

The nurse leads us into our "chemo room". She informs us that since it's Spencer's first time, he gets his own private room. Next time he'll have to share with a group of others.

She tells him to have a seat in his big comfy chair while she prepares the drugs. While she's doing this she's giving him a plethora of information about what he'll be going through today and what to expect afterwards. Spencer is listening intently, his expression remaining the same throughout.

She finally has the drugs prepared and tells Spencer that she's going to connect the IV tube to a vein in his arm. She says it will be painless and there's nothing to worry about.

He says okay, but I can tell that he's not. I hold his hand and he squeezes mine. Any trace of goofy, happy-go-lucky Spencer has vanished and has been replaced with anxious, frightened Spencer. I squeeze his hand back to let him know that everything will be alright.

He cringes slightly as she is attaching the tube, but when she's finished we see that it wasn't so bad. The nurse tells us that she is beginning the drip. After a minute she notifies us that the connection was successful. She asks if we have any questions. We say no, and she tells us to push the 'help' button for assistance if we need it. We thank her and she is gone.

Now all we have to do is wait for a couple of hours while the chemicals do their job.

"How do you feel?" I ask Spencer.

"I don't feel a thing. It doesn't hurt or anything."

"Good. You're doing a great job," I say with all the seriousness and sincerity in the world.

He smirks at me, "Stop acting like you're my mom," he jokes, pushing me lightly on the shoulder. Seeing him smile makes me smile, and I know we're cool.

From there we start talking about things other than cancer, something that hasn't really happened between us at all in the past couple of weeks. Ironically, we are sitting in a cancer treatment center, but his cancer is the only thing we don't talk about as I make conversation with my brother. We distract each other and make each other laugh—it's our coping mechanism, and it's great while it lasts. But soon as we look around the room in a moment of silence, we are snapped back to reality. The reality of why we are here, and what we are doing. The fact that this is the beginning of a rough era for us. That it's not just a nightmare. It's reality; it's here. It's real.

* * *

After two and a half long hours of treatment, Spencer is finally finished for the day. As we exit the hospital and make our way to the car, I could not be more relieved. I climb in the driver's seat, as Spencer can't drive immediately after he receives treatment, and pull out of our parking space to leave.

Spencer has gone back to being quiet, though I can't tell if it's because he feels sick or not. The nurse said to expect post-chemo nausea, but I'm not sure how soon that will kick in. He looks pretty exhausted, as if he might just conk out next to me. I want to get him home as fast as I can so he can get some rest. He needs it.

Even though he's half asleep, I tell him one more time how great he did back there. "Hey, Spence...I know you're basically asleep, but I just wanted to say that I'm really proud of you. You were really brave back there," I say, "And I love you," I add.

He mumbles something incoherently in his slumber. All I can make out are the words, "Love you, too."

* * *

The next night is a Tuesday. Spencer's "nausea" kicked in full force while I was at school today. Nausea is an understatement. Poor Spencer has been puking and coughing up a storm all day long. His body aches, he can't sleep, and he's experiencing seemingly everlasting cold sweats. On top of that he's got a 101 degree fever. _Nausea_. Yeah, okay.

I can't stand to see Spencer this way. I want to make him all better. But all I can do for him is be his nurse, tending to his every need at his bedside. I don't know how long this will last, but I want him to get better soon. His next treatment session is three weeks from now. Hopefully this doesn't happen every time he goes in for chemo.

I run from his bedroom to the kitchen to fetch him another glass of cold water when I hear the front door open. Sam and Freddie walk in. They haven't been around as much in the past couple of weeks, wanting to give Spencer and me some distance. They want to help, but I told them that's the best thing that they can do right now.

Sam looks me up and down. I am wearing old sweatpants and a tattered t-shirt; my hair is thrown up in a messy ponytail and I am wearing no makeup. Once again, I look like a wreck. It's becoming a normal thing for me. "Shouldn't you clean yourself up a little?" Sam asks me.

"For what?" I ask stupidly, completely forgetting that it's Tuesday night.

"iCarly?!" Sam says with a 'duh' look on her face.

There's a flash of panic on my face for a split second, but it passes almost instantly. "I'm sorry, I totally forgot. Spencer is really sick from his chemo yesterday. I have to help him out. I'm gonna have to sit this one out, guys," I tell my best friends apologetically.

"Is he okay?" is the first thing Freddie and Sam say simultaneously.

I honestly don't know the answer to their simple question. "I don't know," is the best I can come up with.

Freddie and Sam look at each other, reading each other's faces for a solution. "We can do this show without you," Freddie speaks, "We can get Gibby over here to co-host with Sam. Maybe even T-Bo will help us out."

"Is there anything you want us to do to help Spencer out?" Sam asks.

"No, I can handle him. But thanks for understanding, guys. He needs me," I say. I finally know that for a fact—he needs me.

They tell me "no problem" and head upstairs to the studio. I take the glass of water back to the bedroom. Spencer has managed to fall asleep in the short time I was gone. I stare at him with sympathy—my poor big brother. I set the water on his nightstand, give him a kiss on the forehead, cover him with his blanket, and leave him alone to sleep in peace.

**One more time, please review :) I hate to nag but it would make my day! Thanks for reading :)**


	5. Someone To Watch Over Me

**SPENCER'S POV**

I wake up and it's already the next morning. The sickness started yesterday afternoon and it's somehow worse than I thought it would be. Everything hurts; my head, my stomach, my lungs and throat from coughing, my arms and legs and basically all of my muscles ache. It hurts to breathe. I feel so weak. Just when I doubt that I can even get out of bed I jump up and try to run to the bathroom; I can feel the bile rising. I'm dizzy and groggy; the room is spinning. I can't even get to my door before I can't hold my puke any longer. I end up on the floor, puking and coughing. I can't get up. I feel pathetic.

Suddenly Carly is standing above me. She helps me up and leads me back to bed. She wraps me in her arms and I can't stop coughing; I cough into her hair. My mouth is rimmed with bile, but she doesn't care. She keeps me right where I am. She lays me down in bed and covers me with my blanket. I'm dizzy and can't completely make out what she's saying, but I think she tells me it's going to be okay. I hope she's right. I feel like I'm dying. I don't want her to see me. I feel pathetic.

All of the sudden Carly has disappeared from my bedside. I close my eyes to rest them and try to stay still. I want my body to go numb so I don't have to feel this sickness all over my body. It's everywhere. I want it to go away. I feel pathetic.

I feel Carly's touch again. She's brought me a tall glass of ice cold water—something the nurse told her I'd be needing plenty of. She helps me drink it through a straw. I feel pathetic.

Carly's gone again a moment later. I hear her cleaning the floor where I threw up. I don't want her doing that for me. Little girls shouldn't have to be cleaning up after their big brother's puke. I feel pathetic.

Minutes later Carly is once again at my bedside. She feels my head. I am sweating and my head is scorching hot, but I am freezing under my covers. I am sweaty, burning hot, and shivering at the same time. I feel pathetic.

My vision gets a little clearer. There is worry written all over Carly's face. I am so upset that she has to see me like this; I know that it makes her feel bad. I am embarrassed, worried, and ashamed. I feel pathetic.

I realize that it's Wednesday morning. Carly should be going to school right now. I try really hard to form words and finally am able to speak. "You have to go to school. I'll be fine here," I say weakly.

"No way! I'm not leaving you. You're not fine. You're sick and miserable!"

"Don't worry, the nurse said sickness is a normal side effect. Go to school."

"I'm not going to school," she asserts.

"You missed Monday. Go to school."

"I'm not going to school!" She repeats, louder this time. I don't say anything else; I give in, mostly because I'm too weak right now to argue back to a perfectly healthy teenage girl. I feel pathetic.

I spend the rest of the day either in my bed or crouched over the toilet. Carly tends to me all day long like my own personal nurse. Whatever I need, she is there for me. She brings me my meds, fresh water every hour, and she cleans up after me. I feel pathetic.

As the day drags on I start feeling more and more exhausted. At one point I can't move or even keep my eyes open because I am so tired. Before passing out, however, I manage to mumble a feeble, "Thanks," to the best little sister/nurse in the entire world.

Even in my sleep I feel pathetic.

* * *

The past week has been much of the same thing, though I have been gradually improving. Carly has been wanting to stay home with me every day, but I managed to get her to go last Thursday and she hasn't missed a day since. She worries about me constantly. I'm always getting texts and phone calls from her in between classes. And she usually skips lunch to come home and see how I'm doing. I always put on a brave face and act as healthy as I can around her so she doesn't worry as much, but I don't think it's working. She takes one look at me and knows that I feel miserable. It breaks her heart.

She even has Mrs. Benson come check on me frequently, which gets more and more annoying each time she visits. I would rather suffer alone than have her here with me at any time. I've even locked the door to keep her out—something I rarely ever do.

My sickness was going full force in the first three days, but it's gotten somewhat better since then. I haven't thrown up in two days and my coughing has lessened slightly. I'm still pretty exhausted all the time. I can't escape the fatigue no matter how much I rest. My muscles still ache as well. I spend most of my days lounging around, but when I can summon enough energy I try to work on my sculptures. This is my job—the only way money is coming to us. If I stop working on my sculptures we'll run out of money fast with all my treatments. I can't let that happen.

Soon I'm back to being tired and I sit down on the couch. I don't turn on the television. I just sit and try to relax. Soon the relaxing is interrupted by a knock on the door. Mrs. Benson is the first thing that comes to my mind. I groan, "Mrs. Benson, go away. I'm sleeping!"

"Who's Mrs. Benson?" I hear my buddy Socko say through the door.

I'm happy to hear his voice and excited to have some company that I will enjoy. I get up and open the door. "Hey, man!" he says as he pulls me into a tight bro hug. Socko knows about my cancer, but this is the first time he's seen me since I told him over the phone. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty shitty," I say as we head over to the couch, "I have a huge headache and I'm exhausted. But I'm alright."

"Well you look terrible," he points out bluntly. "Have you lost weight?"

"I don't know, maybe some. The chemo made me throw up constantly and I haven't had much of an appetite."

"That sucks, dude. Hang in there," he says, patting me on the back. It hurts a little bit, but I appreciate the gesture so I don't comment on it. "Hey, I got a present for you."

"Really? Lemme see!" I explain as I perk up. Everybody knows I love gifts.

Socko sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a baggie about halfway filled with fuzzy green leaves.

My eyes widen as I realize what's in the bag. "Is that…?"

Socko nods with a huge goofy grin on his face. "You know it."

"Come on, you know I can't smoke that in here."

"Why not? It's medicinal. It'll make you feel better. And it's legal in Washington now. So light up, brother!" He proclaims, tossing the baggie in my lap.

"Where did you even get this?"

"My sister grows it in her basement."

"Seriously? Which one?" I ask curiously.

"Mary-Jane."

"Ahh." Figures.

"So what's the deal, man? You gonna smoke it or not?"

I look at the baggie, thinking of how I would sometimes experiment with this stuff back when I was in art school. It _is_ proven to help with chemotherapy side effects…

I sigh, "How much do I owe you?"

"It's on the house, bro. Mary-Jane says to get well," he says, taking a bowl and a lighter out of his other pocket and handing them to me.

I smile, "Tell her I said thanks."

"Will do."

"You wanna light up with me?" I ask him.

"I would love to, but I got a thing. My Uncle Stu is making his famous stew for the family tonight. But if you want some more give me a call. I can hook you up," he says, winking at me.

"Thanks, dude. I'll talk to you soon," I say as I walk him to the door. He walks out of the loft and I lock the door behind him.

I sit back on the couch and open the baggie. I can't believe I'm about to do this again. It's been at least a decade. If there's any chance that this will help me, I'm happy to do it again. I start to pack the bowl. Once it's nice and tight I grab the lighter, put it to the bowl, inhale. I feel a huge weight being lifted off my shoulders. My headache feels slightly relieved. My bodily aches feel slightly less sore. I feel slightly less sick. I take another hit. Another. Another. Until it's gone. My pain has subsided for now. I smile.

Everything seems alright. I know that I have cancer and I'm sick, but I feel great. I'm on cloud nine. I look around the room. Everything I see makes me happy—all my sculptures, all my belongings, even all the simple colors and patterns light up my world. I suddenly have an appetite. I go to the pantry and make myself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. I eat it slowly. It's the best cereal I've ever eaten. It's colorful, it's delicious, it fills me. It makes me happy. I feel whole. Everything is alright.

When I'm done with my cereal I realize that Carly will be home soon. I go back to the couch. I gather up the baggie, the bowl, and the lighter and take it to my bedroom. I hide the stuff in my sock drawer, just like old times. I hear the front door unlock and Carly yell for me, so I go back to the living room.

I see Carly, Sam, and Freddie standing near the couch. They're all sniffing the air. Carly and Freddie look confused by the smell, but Sam knows what it is. _Naughty Sam._ I smirk at them.

"Hey, Spence…" she says, turning to me, "What's that smell?" Carly asks, and I can't help but start to laugh at innocent, beautiful little Carly. I laugh and laugh, and it feels good. I haven't laughed in awhile. It feels good.

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter. The sickness stuff is kind of heavy so I was hoping that the little weed bit would lighten the mood a little ;) Oh, and by the way, all of the chapters are the names of songs by my favorite artist. The titles seemed to fit the story's chapters quite nicely, I thought. Anyone who can guess the artist: props to you! ;D**

**Please continue to support & review! Thanks so much!**


	6. What Is It About Men?

**CARLY'S POV**

A couple more weeks have passed and today is Christmas Eve. Spencer had his second chemo session yesterday. It was a little different than last time. We shared a room with several other patients going through chemo, all of whom were pretty nice.

For a few days before his session he was feeling a little bit more like himself, besides the fatigue and weight loss, but now the sickness is starting back up all over again. He hasn't been throwing up or anything yet, but he has the same off look in his eyes as he did after his first treatment.

He's only had two sessions so far, and his second was only yesterday, but the chemo is already changing him. He looks as if he loses a pound or two every day and he's paler than he normally is. His hair hasn't fallen out much yet, but it looks like it's starting to thin out. He's much more tired and weak than he ever was before. I try to give him some independence, but I can't bear to see him getting worse every day.

Right now it's just before midnight. Spencer is napping on the couch. I'm sitting on the ground, wrapping his, Sam's, and Freddie's gifts that I managed to buy in the past week while he was feeling better. I didn't spend much this year—I only got Spencer a coffee mug with his name on it, an action figure of his favorite superhero, and a framed photo of us—since I know that money will start to get tight soon. I decide that I will start looking for a job during the week. We will need the extra money coming in, what with all of Spencer's treatments and my saving up for college.

Spencer suddenly wakes up and launches into a nasty coughing fit. I run to the kitchen and fill a glass with water for him. I hurry over to him, still coughing, and help him drink it. The coughing stops and he takes some deep breaths. "Thanks," he breathes.

"No problem," I say as I return to wrapping Sam's gift—the new Cuddlefish album and a brand new penny tee.

"Can I borrow some of that gift wrap when you're done? I still need to wrap your gifts," Spencer says as he lifts himself off of the couch and coughs a few more times.

"You're not feeling well, let me wrap them for you," I offer before realizing how ridiculous the idea is.

He puts his hands on hips and scrunches his eyebrows. "So you want to wrap the gifts that I got you so that you can unwrap them again in a few hours? Isn't that kind of pointless and ruining the surprise?"

I see his point, but argue for my side anyway, "It's fine, I enjoy wrapping things. And you can watch me wrap them so you can see how surprised I am. Is that good?"

He shakes his head and grabs a roll of gift wrap from the floor, "No, Carly. I'll wrap the gifts myself." He walks back to his bedroom.

I continue to wrap the gifts for a few minutes before I hear Spencer's door swing open and him running into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. I hear him start to throw up. I grab his water from the coffee table and run to the bathroom door. It's locked.

"Spencer, let me in! I have your water!"

"No, Carly," he says in a muffled voice, "I can handle myself."

"Let me help you!"

"Go away!" he yells back at me.

I stand in front of the closed door for a moment. I hear him gagging and coughing, struggling to breath. I want him to let me in. I need to help him, but he won't let me.

I wait outside the door for a few minutes, listening to him through the door. I hear the toilet flush after a couple minutes and then there's a long moment of silence. "Spencer?" I call to make sure he's alright.

He finally opens the door, pushes past me and goes to his room, locking the door behind him. I hear him cough more; he sounds absolutely terrible. I knock on the door and call his name, begging him to open up. I offer to bring him water or anything else he needs. He just yells for me, with as much strength as he can muster in his voice, to leave him alone.

I want to please Spencer, but leaving him alone is something that I just can't do. I can't walk away from my sick brother. I won't leave him.

I sit on the ground and listen to him coughing for awhile. I want more than anything to break down his door and comfort him, but I know that he wants to be alone. I don't know what it is—am I smothering him? Am I making him feel helpless? All I want to do is make him feel better, but I feel like I'm making him feel worse.

I don't know how long it is before I am sprawled out on the floor in front of Spencer's door, but soon enough I am asleep.

_Merry Christmas._

* * *

"Carly…Carly," I feel someone shaking me as they say my name. I squint my eyes as they focus and see that it's Spencer kneeling down next to me. "Hey, kiddo,"

"Hi," I say, not fully awake yet as I stretch.

"You really slept out here all night?" he asks.

I nod my head. "How are you feeling? Have you thrown up again? Have you been drinking water?"

He raises his hand to stop me. "I'm okay. I can take care of myself without you sometimes," he asserts. He must be able to tell that I'm hurt by the look on my face. He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Look, kiddo. I'm sorry about last night. I know that you get worried about me and you just want to help, and as much as I appreciate that, sometimes it gets to me. I'm the one that's supposed to be taking care of you. I'm a grown man with no control. It's hard to accept that I can't do things myself and just be normal."

"If it makes you feel any better, you've never been normal," I say trying to evoke a smile—it works.

"That's true," he agrees.

"But really, Spence. It's okay that you need help. For the time being our household is operating a lot differently than it used to. But it'll all be better soon. And I'm sorry if I've been smothering you. I'll give you some space, unless I see that you're only being stubborn, in which case I'll step in."

"Deal," he says. I start to get up from the ground, but Spencer pulls me back down. "Hey," he starts, smiling at me. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," I smile back at him and we hug, long and hard.

* * *

Our usual Christmas tradition is to open a ton of gifts, have a huge meal that we spend hours preparing, and go sledding on the big hill at the park, but this year things are much different.

After our encounter outside of Spencer's bedroom this morning we go to the living room, where all the presents—fewer than usual—are wrapped and placed under the tree, ready to be opened. We open gifts first, but only get so far before Spencer rushes off to the bathroom to throw up again. It takes a little time for us to regroup again, but then we finish with our gifts.

Spencer loves his action figure, but his favorite gift, he says, is the framed picture of us that was taken at a party on the Fourth of July. We are smiling and happy; fireworks are erupting in the night sky behind us. We're both healthy. It was a fun night.

I unwrap my gifts to find that Spencer has shamed me as far as gifts go—a six pack of Glitter Gloss lipsticks, a new polka dot case for my PearPhone, an assortment of sparkly jewelry, every season of _Full House _(in the box that actually looks like a house), and a small new sculpture that looks like a miniature of me. Spencer calls it "Little Carly."

After we finish opening presents (and hug again) we relax for a couple of hours before Sam and Freddie come over. We repeat the gift exchange process. Once again, my gift-giving is put to shame—even against Sam.

Sam and Freddie stay over for the rest of the day and we watch _A Christmas Story_, _Elf, _and_ It's a Wonderful Life. _We also play card games and board games; it's fun, but definitely not how I would have preferred to spend my Christmas.

Spencer has his ups and downs during the day. He'll be perfectly fine for awhile, and then go rushing back to the bathroom suddenly. He goes back and forth all day.

When Sam and Freddie eventually leave, Spencer and I collapse next to each other on the couch. I'm pretty tired and I can tell he is too, as always.

"Sorry Christmas sucked," he mumbles, staring straight ahead.

I look at him, "It didn't suck for me. I had a good day. Did it suck for you?"

"A little, but only because I could tell you weren't enjoying it much. I'm used to the on-and-off sickness by now."

"Well you're wrong. I had a great day. I spent it with you and my best friends, I got a bunch of awesome gifts, and I watched one of my favorite movies."

"I know, but it just didn't feel like Christmas. I promise once I get better I'm going to take you sledding. We'll have a great time, kiddo."

I smile at his urge to please me, "Thanks."

"You should get to bed. It's getting late and you need a good night's rest," he tells me.

"You worry about me too much."

"Touché," he retorts. I laugh at him and kiss him on the cheek goodnight.

I climb a few steps before I turn around and quote _It's a Wonderful Life_ in my best old-timey voice, "Spencer Shay, I'll love you till the day I die!"

He turns around and chuckles at me. "Love you too, Carls. Goodnight."

**It would have been nice to actually have this up at Christmas, but this is close enough. :) Thanks for reading & for the generous reviews! Keep them coming if you like what you read :)**


	7. Help Yourself

**SPENCER'S POV**

New Year's Eve. Just like with Christmas, Carly should be out having fun and enjoying herself. Once again, however, she is planning on a quiet night in with her friends, watching over me.

I decide to take a shower—not because I need one necessarily, but more so just to get some privacy. I undress myself and take a look at my body in the mirror. I'm white as a ghost; I'm getting thinner daily; I have a few large black, blue and brown bruises scattered on my arms, legs, and back. I'm a wreck. I focus on my face. I look gaunt and unattractive. I try to stare into my eyes but I'm unable to. They're dead and disappointing. I walk away.

I step into the shower. The water is scorching hot, but I don't reach to turn it down. It is burning my skin, but I let it. I resist the urge to lower the temperature, but I stay put. I need to train myself to withstand the pain—I can probably be expecting much worse as my diagnosis drags on.

I don't have control over much at all in my life right now. I need to be able to have some control over something, so it might as well be my state of mind and ability to numb myself from pain. Someone once told me that pain and suffering are two different things. Pain is a physical feeling while suffering is the emotion that is caused as a result of pain. My general hope is that if I can learn to endure the pain, I can go without suffering. I want to live without suffering.

I take the bottle of shampoo in my hand and squirt some into my palm. As I rub it into my hair and then rinse, I see a lock of hair fall to the ground and wash down the drain. Over the past week my hair has been slowly but surely falling out. Carly says it's barely noticeable, but it is to me. And I'm sure that once again she is lying to spare my feelings, but I don't confront her about it. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

I start to think to myself. You know how they say that some of your deepest thoughts occur while you're taking a shower? Whoever said that is absolutely accurate.

Thoughts start rushing in about what's going on in my life. I'm sick, and getting progressively worse. The chemotherapy may be helping in the long run but it's destroying me for the time being. I am weak and falling apart. I am becoming useless. I feel pathetic.

Not too long ago I was goofy, artsy, fun Spencer. I didn't have a care in the world. I was looking forward to furthering myself in my art career, finding the love of my life and making her mine, having kids; growing old happy, and seeing the same happiness and success fill Carly's life. No doubt that she'll postpone her college plans to stay with me if I don't improve soon. I won't allow her to hold herself back in life because of me.

I went from being a healthy, happy-go-lucky guy to being a diseased, pathetic shell of a man. I feel pathetic.

Once all of the hot water is used up, I step out of the shower. I wrap a towel around my waist. My skin is pink and tingling from the hot water. I use another towel to rub my hair dry and see that I've shed another piece of my hair into the towel. I'm pissed.

Each time I see that a chunk of my hair has fallen out I get more and more fed up. Each strand of hair that is lost represents a shred of my dignity that is disintegrating. Losing my dignity is a process—one that I would prefer to have completed all at once rather than be dragged out. It hurts me more when it's slow. I want to live without suffering.

I walk to the mirror and wipe away the steam with my hand in a circular motion. I look at myself again, avoiding my eyes this time. I'm not brave enough to face them. I run my hands through my hair.

My dignity; rip it off like a band-aid.

I open the medicine cabinet and reach for the razor. I know what I'm going to do. I have control. I'm going to be free. I want to live without suffering.

The monotonous buzzing of the razor indicates that it's on. I'm ready. There's no turning back now. I raise it to the middle of my head and press down. I go right down the center in a straight line; my hair falls to the ground. I look pretty stupid like this, but I have no urge to laugh about it. There is no humor here. I have control. I bring the razor back to my head; another row is gone. Another, another, another. With each row of my hair that disappears, I gain a little more control. I desperately crave control. Lately I have had no control; I am hungry for it now.

It's gone. The buzzing stops as I turn the razor off. My hair is lying on the floor, surrounding me. It is no longer on my head. No longer a part of me.

I look at myself in the mirror. My head is completely bald. If you couldn't tell I'm a cancer patient before you definitely can now. I stare at myself. I've always had great hair and loved it, but oddly enough I am satisfied with this look. It's who I am now; I must face it.

I try to confront my own eyes again. Unlike the previous two times, I am finally able to see beneath the brown. I see what I am. It's unsettling to me on the surface, but then I feel an overwhelming sense of control. It feeds me. I have control.

* * *

After I go to my bedroom and calm myself for awhile, I decide that it's time to debut my new look.

I can hear Carly, Sam, and Freddie chattering in the living room. They're having a mini party here to ring in the new year—meaning that just the four of us are going to play more card games and watch more movies like we did for Christmas, but this time there will be New Year's decorations instead.

I brace myself to exit the confined quarters of my bedroom and show myself to the teens. Carly will no doubt be shocked and worried. She'll pretend to love it but will secretly hate it. I know the drill by now. It doesn't really matter what she thinks, though. What's done is done.

My door opens and I walk down the hallway, entering the living room. Carly, Sam and Freddie are sitting on the couch blowing up balloons and tossing them around. I go unnoticed at first. "Hey, guys," I say nonchalantly, strolling in front of the counter where the computer sits.

Sam and Freddie reply with some form of "hey" and Carly is busy blowing up a balloon. All three of them glance in my path to acknowledge my presence; when they notice the absence of my hair Sam and Freddie's jaws drop and Carly lets go of her balloon. It flys crazily around the room, making a farting noise. I would normally find that hysterical, but I'm feeling serious at the moment.

"Spencer, what did you do?!" she exclaims as she stands and comes toward me.

"Uh, I shaved my head?" I say with a "duh" expression on my face.

"Why?"

"It was falling out anyway. I figured I'd take control and just get it over with now. What, you don't like it?"

"No, of course I like it," she tries to convince me. What did I tell you? "I'm just surprised, that's all. I didn't know you were planning on doing this."

"I wasn't planning on it, it just happened. It's easier this way," I tell her simply. "What do you guys think?" I ask Sam and Freddie, hoping they'll be a little more honest with me. I know that I look like an alien; they don't have to lie about it to save my feelings.

"It's...different," Freddie says, "but you make it work, dude." Sympathy compliment.

I thank him anyway. "Thanks, Freddo."

Sam gets up and walks toward me. Sam, the honest one. She doesn't give a crap about hurting my feelings. She stops in front of me, surveying my new appearance. "That's a chizzed up look for you."

"Sam!" Carly yells at her. I smile. An authentic smile for an authentic opinion.

"Hold on, you didn't let me finish!" She huffs at her and continues, "But I think you look like Bane, and that's awesome. Plus, I enjoy bald heads. I approve." I'm smiling at all her comments. "And I'm not lying to make you feel better. Mama don't pull that crap," she adds.

"Thanks, Sam. I consider all of that a compliment."

"Well you should!" she says. "May I touch your head?"

"Sam." Carly repeats, scolding her.

"Carly, it's cool. Go ahead, Sam," I say, bending over so the short girl can reach better. She rubs her hands all over my freshly shaved head. It feels really weird, but I enjoy it.

"Mama likes," I hear Sam say. I give her permission to rub my bald head whenever she wants. She is genuinely excited about this. Sam has just made my day.

* * *

Three minutes till midnight.

I'm reflecting on the past year—a great year for both Carly and me, up until my diagnosis of course.

I'm thinking of my resolutions for the coming year. I don't normally come up with resolutions at all, but it feels appropriate under these circumstances.

Two minutes.

My main goal is obviously to get rid of this cancer and move on with my life. To regain my old self back. To regain my strength. To regain my dignity. To help prepare Carly to go off to college and to encourage her to follow her dreams. For her and me to be happy and healthy, most of all.

One minute.

Carly, Sam, and Freddie are gathered around the TV, anticipating the ball to drop and jumping around with excitement. I'm sitting on the couch. I once had the same excitement that they're exhibiting, but now I'm too tired to bother.

Thirty seconds.

The big glass mirror ball is being lowered little by little. I feel my heart pounding; for some reason it always does as the time gets closer to midnight.

Ten seconds. The teens count down, one number at a time.

Three, two, one. Drop.

Carly, Sam, and Freddie cheer and jump around, welcoming the new year. They hug each other and say "happy new year." They throw confetti and open a bottle of kids' champagne. "Auld Lang Syne" is playing on TV. Tears well in my eyes in this beautiful moment full of love, laughter, friendship, and happiness. I wish the best for these three.

Their attention shifts to me now and they all come running towards the couch. Carly gives me a big hug and sits in my lap; Sam and Freddie sit on either side of me, hugging me from both directions. Carly kisses me on the cheek; Sam pecks me on the top of my bald head; Freddie pats me on the back. I love these three.

It's a beautiful moment. A tear streams down my cheek. It's a wonderful life.

**For some reason I really like this chapter...I hope you do, too! Be kind and review, please :)**

**And a quick question just for fun: What is your favorite iCarly ship? This is a ship free story (unless you're counting the sibling relationship of Spencer and Carly) but I'm just curious to see what all of yours are. Personally, I love Spam & Creddie :3 What's your favorite?**

**Have a great weekend! :)**


	8. Tears Dry On Their Own

**Hello! Just a couple things I'd like to say:**

**1. This week I have exams & will be super busy, so I might not update again until Friday or Saturday. Wish me luck, though! :)**

**2. Sorry if I ever make the story escalate too quickly, if something doesn't make sense, or if something is inaccurate from here on out. Let me know in a review or PM if I've made any mistakes.**

**That's all. Enjoy the chapter & have a good week.**

**CARLY'S POV**

Spencer's next chemo session is in a week. He's supposed to be feeling better by now, but he's still a wreck from the last treatment. If anything, he's worse than he was before.

I'm lying in bed, listening to Spencer coughing up a storm from his. I promised that I would give him some space and give him a chance to take care of himself, so that's what I'm doing. I really want to jump out of bed and run to his bedroom and help him, but I resist the urge.

I can't fall asleep. It's three AM on a school night, but I can't rest when all I hear is my brother suffering. He's hacking, barking, gasping for air all through the night. He can't sleep, either.

The constant noise coming from his bedroom suddenly comes to a halt. I hear nothing for a period of time; the loft is silent. You could hear a pin drop.

At first I am relieved that he has finally stopped coughing and is getting some rest. But then a horrifying thought occurs to me, and I realize that the silence might not be such a good thing after all.

I jump out of bed and practically fall as I speed down the stairs. I sprint through the hallway and into his bedroom. Spencer is passed out on the floor by his bed; his appearance is disheveled—more so than usual—and there is vomit around and on him. He is silent and unmoving.

I shake him and yell his name, desperately yearning for him to wake up. Tears fill my eyes as I automatically assume the worst. I bend down and press my head to his chest. I hear a heartbeat. I have never felt more relief in my life.

I start to shake him again, hoping that he will snap out of this and regretting the space that I decided to give him before. He's my sick brother. Space is the last thing I should have been giving him.

I spot his PearPhone sitting on his nightstand. I hurry to get off the floor and grab it, dialing 911.

I get an answer immediately, "911, what's your emergency?"

I frantically tell them what's going on, taking no time to pause in between my sentences, "My brother won't wake up his heart is beating but he's passed out unconscious he has cancer he needs help I don't want him to die."

"How old is he, miss?"

"He's thirty please send help I don't know what to do."

"It's going to be alright. I need your names."

"Carly and Spencer Shay please hurry he needs to get to a hospital come help him."

"Where is your location?"

"We're at home we live in Bushwell Plaza on Kennedy Square apartment 8-C please hurry send someone fast."

"We'll send help immediately. Hang in there and monitor his breathing. Goodbye, miss."

And with that I am alone again, watching unconscious Spencer. I am trying not to cry because I want to be brave for him, but I can't do it. I'm scared and I'm alone and I'm crying. I crawl over to him and rest my head on his chest. I listen to his heartbeat, half expecting it to abruptly stop.

Everything is a blur. I don't know how much time passes before I hear ambulance sirens alarming outside. A minute later there is a knock at the door. I don't want to leave Spencer but this is his help. They can do more than I can. Don't die while I'm gone.

I answer the door to emergency respondents. I can't tell how many—I'm in a daze. I lead them to Spencer as fast as my feet will carry me. I'm using every ounce of power I can muster not to pass out. The respondents check his pulse and his body before they place him on a gurney and lift him. They follow me to the elevator and we pile on. It seems as if it is moving much slower than usual.

We finally reach the lobby and we head outside to the ambulance. They manage to get Spencer in the back before they all climb in and motion for me to do the same.

The ride to the ambulance is a blur. I feel like I am living inside of a terrible nightmare that I can't recall all of the details of. They are trying to help Spencer, I can tell that. But he remains asleep. We are speeding to the hospital. I'm shaking, staring at Spencer. I am waiting for them to tell me that they lost him, but hoping to God that they don't have to say it. He has to pull through this.

Eventually we are pulling into the hospital. A woman in a nurse's outfit is waiting for me at the entrance. She approaches me as I get out of the ambulance and tells me to come with her because she is going to help me. I tell her that I'm not going with her; I want to stay with Spencer. She tells me that I can't right now but she'll take me to the waiting area. I hate waiting and I hate waiting areas. I'm not going to wait to hear my brother's fate.

Amidst my arguing with the nurse the respondents have disappeared with Spencer. They went inside a door only they have access to. I cry to the nurse, telling her I have to find him before it is too late. She comforts me, telling me that I will see him soon.

She leads me inside the hospital doors. It is too warm in here. She sits me down in the waiting section and settles beside me. She is talking to me about traumatic experiences or something, but I am not listening to her. I'm crying and thinking about Spencer. Nothing specific, just about him. I want to see him. I will sit here and think about him and do nothing else until I am allowed to see him. I don't know what they are doing to him or what is wrong with him. For the first time in a while, I pray endlessly.

* * *

Time passes as I sit in the waiting area for hours. The nurse left me awhile ago. I've only been thinking about Spencer. I want to hear how he's doing. Nobody has told me a thing. He could be dead by now, as much as I hate to think about that. I don't know what I will do if he dies.

A pale woman with red hair approaches me. She is wearing a white lab coat. It's easy to assume that she's a doctor. "Carly Shay?" she asks me.

"Yes, that's me. How's Spencer?" I ask her right off the bat.

She smiles sadly at my concern for him. "He's still unconscious, but my doctors are finished working on him for now. Would you like to see him?"

I nod my head so fast I almost get whiplash. I get out of my seat for the first time in hours. My butt is numb.

The woman and I walk side by side as she leads me through white doors and down a white hallway. "I'm Dr. Welsh, by the way. Your brother's oncologist. I don't believe we've met before but at our appointments he's spoken of you fondly. It's nice to finally meet you, even under these circumstances."

_Even under these circumstances?_ What does that mean? Is there bad news she's not telling me? "It's nice to meet you, too." I say weakly.

We finally stop in front of a wooden door, exactly the same as all the other perfectly lined doors in the hall. There's a rectangular window built into the door. I peer inside and see a still body lying in a perfectly made bed. It hurts to look. She opens the door and holds it for me. I walk in and get a closer look at Spencer. I'm waiting for him to greet me in some goofy way, but I know that he won't. I cautiously inch toward his bedside and look at his face. Dark circles rim his closed eyes and he looks even paler than usual under this lighting. I place my hand on his. It's ice cold.

"I'll leave you alone with him. You can stay as long as you like, as long as no one instructs you to leave for some reason. Don't touch anything and press the red button on the nightstand if he wakes up."

"Okay. Thank you," I say to her, not taking my eyes off of Spencer.

I hear the door close, indicating that Dr. Welsh is gone. There are a couple of chairs lined up against the wall. I leave Spencer's side for a moment and briskly grab one, taking it to the side of his hospital bed. I sit down and once again put my hand on his. I wish that somehow I could suck all of the pain and suffering out of his system and take it from him. I would rather go through all of this for him than see him have to go through it. Each time I look at him my heart breaks a little more.

I wish that he would wake up so I could hear his voice and know that he's alright, but for now I am perfectly content with holding his hand and watching him breathe. Ironically, he looks so peaceful.

Soon enough my head is resting on the edge of the bed. I am exhausted and not as panicked as before. Even though I am still worried and frazzled, I manage to drift off to sleep for awhile; my hand still in his.


	9. Some Unholy War

**SPENCER'S POV**

I'm looking up at Carly, my friends, and the rest of my family—even my dad is here. They're all in black. They're standing way above me, looking down. Their faces are solemn. Carly has been crying. I'm confined by brown walls. With a little bit of focus I realize that it's dirt. I'm confused by the situation. I try to get up and climb out of the hole. I can't move. I try to yell up to my loved ones. My mouth won't open to speak. Internally I am screaming and thrashing about, but physically I cannot do a thing. I am dead.

My eyes pop open. It was just a weird dream. I am relieved for a moment before confusion takes over. Where am I? I look around the room. It is white and plain and boring. I hear a steady beeping noise next to me; it is a machine monitoring my heart rate. I am hooked up to wires. I am lying in an all white bed. I realize that I'm in a hospital.

What happened last night? The last thing I remember is being so sick I felt like death. I tried to keep it down so I wouldn't wake Carly, but I don't remember a thing after that.

The next thing I see is a mess of dark brown hair at my side. It is Carly, sound asleep on the edge of the bed. She is sitting in a chair beside the bed and clutching my hand with her life. Oh, no. What did she see last night? I'm in the hospital. I don't want her to see me like this.

I squeeze her hand and she shifts around in her seat a little bit before lifting her head. She sees that I'm awake and her tired little face lights up.

"Spencer, you're awake!" she squeals, throwing her arms around my neck. She quickly retreats back to her seat an instant later. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt? How do you feel?"

"I'm okay...I'm just confused. What happened last night?"

"You got so sick you passed out. I called 911 and they brought you here, but no one has told me specifically what's up. Do you feel okay?"

"I feel tired and a little sore. Nothing too bad," I lie. I feel absolutely terrible, like I've just been hit by a bus. It hurts to move, to breathe, to speak. I have a killer headache. My back and my chest hurt the most, though. I'm uncomfortable telling Carly all of this, so I will continue to lie to her.

"You poor thing," she moans, holding my hand again.

"What about you? Are you okay? You must have been pretty freaked last night."

"I was scared out of my mind but this isn't about me. Don't worry about me for a second."

Same old Carly, only worrying about me. I guess she has license to in this situation but it still bothers me to no end.

Carly says, "Oh, Dr. Welsh told me to buzz for a nurse once you wake up." She reaches for the red button on the nightstand. A moment later a nurse enters the room and introduces herself as Lisa. Lisa checks my temperature, takes my blood pressure, and asks me how I'm doing. I say that I could be better. That's the truth.

Lisa asks Carly to come back with her to the waiting area because Dr. Welsh is going to come talk to me soon. Carly refuses to leave my side; she won't let go of my hand. As much as I want to shield her from whatever news the doctor will bring I hate to picture her all alone in the waiting area, worrying about me more. She is looking at me and I look into her eyes. She is scared and gripping my hand so hard it's like she is preparing for Lisa to come and pull her away from me.

I look back to Lisa, "Is it okay if she stays with me? I want her here."

Lisa's eyes go from me to Carly and back to me. "I guess I can make an exception. Dr. Welsh will be with you in a few minutes." She leaves the room.

"Thanks for letting me stay," Carly says, putting her head on my chest, hugging me in a way.

"No problem, kiddo."

"I love you," she says, her head still resting on my chest.

"I love you, too," I tell her. I mean it one hundred percent. I would be dead by now if it weren't for her. I've taken care of her for years and now it's her turn to take care of me. She's stepped up to the plate and has been doing a great job, despite the fact that I'm in the hospital at the moment. She's trying her best to take care of me without breaking. I love her.

It takes longer than a few minutes for Dr. Welsh to arrive—it's more like a half hour at least. But when she does Carly's head shoots up from my chest and she sits straight up in her chair, her hand still intertwined with mine.

"Hello, Spencer. Carly," she says, nodding to her. "Are you feeling alright, Spencer?"

"I'm hanging in there, doc."

"That's the best you can do, I suppose." She stops talking for a moment and grabs a chair from the corner of the room. She brings it over to the other side of my bed—the side that Carly isn't on. Dr. Welsh opens her folder and flips through some papers. Nobody speaks. She finally closes her folder and sets it in her lap, folding her hands on top of it. She looks at me. "If there's anything I hate about my job it's giving bad news," she starts. I hold my breath and Carly squeezes my hand. "Unfortunately, Spencer, the chemotherapy hasn't been working as we'd originally hoped. Your tumor has grown too large and metastasis has occured—meaning it has started spreading to other parts of your body. You've moved to stage four of your diagnosis. Our plan at this point is to perform surgery to remove your tumor. That will eliminate the main source of your cancer, but there will still be traces of it where it has already spread. From there we can start to do weekly radiation therapy. Hopefully that will rid you of the malignant cells once and for all. I'm sorry that it's come to this."

I process what she has just told me. Carly has been squeezing my hand tighter with each sentence Dr. Welsh has spoken. My circulation to that hand has without a doubt been cut off. There's a lump in my throat as I try to speak, "When will you do the surgery?"

"How's tomorrow morning?"

I shrug, in a daze. "Fine with me."

"Okay," she says, resting her hand on mine in a comforting manner. "Don't worry, you'll be in good hands. I'll have the surgeon come speak to you about the process later. You'll be staying in the hospital tonight, just so we can keep an eye on you." I nod my head. Dr. Welsh gets up and replaces the chair back in its corner. "You take care, and buzz for Lisa if you need anything. I'll be on call as well so just let her know to contact me if you have any questions." And with that, Dr. Welsh is gone.

A million thoughts run through my head, but I get them all to stop. I am afraid, but I need to accept that this is the situation. I am going to have surgery tomorrow morning. It sounds scary but it will help me. I need to put my mind at ease. People go through this all the time. Sure, more than half of people don't survive this. But I will make it. I can be the exception.

I look over at Carly. She is frozen, staring straight ahead. Allowing her to stay in the room was probably a mistake, but at least I don't have to tell her myself now. She knows the truth and I won't be the one having to break her heart with my words.

I want to make her feel better, "Carly, the surgery is going to help me."

She turns to me and her head falls on my chest. She is crying. "I know it's going to help, but I'm so scared. I just want you to be healthy again. Why did this happen to you? You're such a good person. You don't deserve this."

I rub her back and soothe her as she cries for me. I let her know that it's going to be alright. There's a little voice in the back of my head telling me that it won't.

**Sorry this chapter is kinda short & sorry that it took awhile to update. Only a few more chapters to go! Review please & have a great week :)**


	10. Wake Up Alone

**CARLY'S POV**

I'm sitting in the cafeteria alone, poking at my salad with a plastic fork. I have no appetite whatsoever, nor did I want to leave Spencer's side, but he forced me to come down and eat something. He said that I need to take care of myself. I need to take care of him.

I'm checking my phone for the first time since last night. I have a load of texts and missed calls from Sam, Freddie, Gibby, and even T-Bo. They're all asking me what happened, if Spencer is okay, if I'm okay. I send them a group text telling them that Spencer passed out last night and he's having surgery in the morning. I let them know what hospital to come to if they want to come and wait with me, since it's probably best for me to be distracted by something. Lastly, I tell them not to worry. He'll be okay and I'm okay. I don't want them to worry. Worrying has seemed to become the theme of my life over the past couple months.

I take a few bites of my salad and throw away the rest. I return to Spencer's room; he's sitting upright in his bed, waiting for me.

"Sit down," he motions to the chair, "we need to talk."

I look to the ground. I have a feeling I know what's coming. I sit down in what has become my chair. I don't hold his hand this time around.

"What are we going to talk about?" I ask him.

He takes a deep breath. "This isn't going to be a pleasant conversation for either of us, but it's time that we get it out of the way. I want to talk to you about what will happen in the event of my death."

That word sends a dagger to my heart. I don't want to think about Spencer being dead. I grimace. "Stop."

"Carly, I'm going to say this whether you like it or not. So listen," he pauses. "I have a will written out. It's locked in where we keep our birth certificates and passports—you know where the key is. But I'll tell you what it says right now: all of my belongings will go to you. My possessions, my money, my insurance, the loft. Since you're an adult, it's all yours. I'll let you do whatever you want with it but you have to promise me something."

"What's that?" I ask him. I don't want to listen to this.

"You have to move on with your life. You can't dwell on my death. You have to go to college and pursue your dreams, whatever that may be. I'll be proud of you and looking down on you no matter what you do. Just keep your head held high and do what makes you happy. Don't forget about me, but also don't be sad about what happened. Remember me as I was before, when I was healthy and we had good times. Wipe the past couple months out of your memory and forget about them. Just make yourself happy and by doing that, make me proud. Do you promise?"

Silent tears stream down my face. I don't wipe them away. He's breaking my heart. "Spencer, I can't—"

"Do you promise?" he cuts me off.

I look into his eyes. "Yes. I promise."

"Good," he whispers, reaching to wipe my tears away. He leans forward and hugs me. I want to squeeze him harder than ever before, but I don't want to hurt him by doing so. We stay in an effortless, loving hug for awhile. Soon, Lisa knocks on the door and enters the room. I turn to look at her.

"Sorry to interrupt, but you can't spend the night in here, sweetheart. Let me escort you to the waiting area."

I look at Spencer. "You should go home and sleep in your own bed."

"No way. I'll sleep in the waiting room. I'm not leaving this hospital for anything." I plant a kiss on his cheek. "Get a good night's rest, Spence. Love you."

"I love you, too," he gives me another hug. It's time for us to pull apart and I leave the room, looking at him one more time before he's out of my sight.

Soon I'm back in the awful waiting room. The eleven o'clock news is being broadcasted on the TV. There are three other people in the waiting area. Two of them are sound asleep, clearly uncomfortable. That will be me in a few minutes.

I sit down in the corner and rest my head up against the wall. I set my phone alarm for seven AM to make sure that I'm up bright and early before Spencer's surgery, which is scheduled for ten.

I stare at the TV, but I'm not paying attention. I picture the doctors cutting Spencer's back open tomorrow morning. The image of his exposed insides—his blood and guts—makes my stomach upset.

I try to get some sleep but it's hard to with what's going on. I close my eyes and think of anything pleasant to help me relax and fall asleep—my favorite song, puppies, unicorns, Christmas, boys with British accents, cupcakes. Nothing quite works and I am wide awake.

I have a long, sleepless night at the hospital ahead of me.

**I didn't realize how short this chapter was when I wrote it...sorry about that :/ I have longer ones coming up! :) Until then, R&R...it's much appreciated! I'll update soon. :)**


	11. He Can Only Hold Her

**SPENCER'S POV**

This morning a group of nurses wheeled me to another white room where I was given a new outfit to change into—my surgery outfit. There is no back to it, as they will be cutting into my back soon.

Lisa led Carly down to this new room fifteen minutes ago. I'm sharing it with other cancer patients who are prepping for surgery. There is a curtain in between us, so I can hear them talking with their loved ones but I can't see them. Carly is sitting at my bedside, just like she did all day yesterday. Despite the fact that we're both exhausted, neither of slept much at all last night. We're trying to find things to talk about that doesn't revolve around cancer, my surgery, or the hospital but it's harder than you would think.

Lisa pulls back my curtain, "Spencer, two minutes. Wrap it up, guys."

Carly looks at me. "Well, this is it."

"I'll see you in a few hours. You don't worry about a thing. These are great doctors, they'll take good care of me," I assure her, trying to assure myself as well.

She holds my hand again, "I don't want you to leave me." I don't know if she's talking about right now for my surgery or forever if I die. Maybe both.

"I'll never leave you," I say, completely serious. "I will always be there."

Lisa returns with a few others, "The doctors are ready for you. Are you set?"

"Let's do this," I tell her.

The nurses come to bed and wheel me out of the room. Carly is walking with them, not letting go of my hand.

We go down a really long hallway and stop in front of two large swinging doors. Lisa speaks, "Okay, Carly. It's time."

She turns to me. There are tears in her eyes. "Good luck in there," she says sadly.

"I'll be okay. Go," I tell her groggily, "I love you, kiddo."

"Love you, too." The nurses start to push the bed toward the doors. Carly is forced to let go of my hand. I want hers to be in mine again. It brings me just as much comfort as her.

The last thing I see before I enter the doors is Carly's sweet, sad face. When I can no longer see her through the windows I close my eyes. I don't want to see anything else. I just want things to be okay.

I am taken to a white room where yet another nurse examines me. She gives me a shot—the anesthesia. I immediately start to feel a little drowsy, but I'm still wide awake in anticipation.

Everything after that is a blur. There are people around me, but I have no idea what's going on. I wonder what Carly is doing, if she's alright. I wonder if I'm going to be alright.

The anesthesia kicks in and I am gone.

* * *

My eyes open. Am I dead? All I see is another white room, identical to all the other rooms I've been in since I arrived at the hospital the other night.

I put my hand on my heart and feel it beating. I must have made it.

I reach for the buzzer to call my nurse in; it hurts to move. Each and every bone in my body aches like I've never felt it before—especially my freshly sown up back. I made it through the surgery but I haven't yet made it through the rest of my battle.

Within a couple of minutes a nurse comes to my room. "Hello, you're awake," she says in a British accent.

"What time is it?" I ask. It hurts to speak; my voice comes out all raspy.

"It's 9 PM, sir. I'm going to have to inspect you if you don't mind." She comes over to my bed and starts to do the same thing all the other nurses have done many times in the past couple days. I let her do whatever she wants to me, like I'm her own personal ragdoll and she is only playing nurse. I move as little as possible.

She is finally finished examining me. "Dr. Welsh will be here in a few minutes." I wonder when Dr. Welsh ever goes home.

"Can I see my sister?" I ask, thinking of how worried Carly must be.

"I can't allow any visitors at the moment, but ask Dr. Welsh about it."

"Let her know I'm okay."

"Will do, sir." She leaves me alone.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for ten or fifteen minutes before Dr. Welsh arrives. I don't move.

"Hello, Spencer."

"Hi, Dr. Welsh."

"How do you feel?"

"I'm in a lot of fucking pain."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but it's normal in your case." She cuts right to the chase, "The removal of the tumor on your spine was successful, but everything else is worse than we thought."

That is a sentence you never want to hear your doctor tell you. "What do you mean?"

"The cancer has spread through all your bones and is starting to make its way to your head. Radiation is still the plan but we're going to have to do even more than that. I'll be giving you some medicine to hopefully spur the spreading. You also have a super low level of red blood cells, which we'll have to help fix with some medicine as well. You aren't looking super right now, Spencer, but with my help we're going to get you to a recovery as fast as we can. Just hang in there."

With this news I have nearly given up on myself. I am lying here in the hospital, completely hopeless. I can't move because it hurts too much. It even hurts to breathe. I am pathetic and this recovery she is talking about is a waste of her breath. I'm done for.

Dr. Welsh goes on talking about the different pills she's going to give me. The nurse with the British accent will bring them to me in an hour when all the surgery medication wears off.

She's about to leave when I ask, "I want to see Carly."

"Okay. I'll go see if she's still in the waiting area." I'm sure she will be.

A few minutes later Dr. Welsh comes back to the room with Carly. Carly comes rushing in to my bedside. She kisses the top of my head and grabs my hand. There are tears in her eyes again. I wonder what Dr. Welsh told her about what's going on.

"I want to give you a big hug but Dr. Welsh said you're in pain."

"I'll allow it. Just be careful. Come here," I say as I slowly open my arms. She softly puts her arms around me and rests her head on my shoulder. After a minute she pulls away and sits on the edge of my bed. "What else did Dr. Welsh tell you?" I ask her.

She pauses briefly and looks at me, about to cry. "Everything."

Once again, I'm a little pleased that I don't have to break the news to her myself. It would break her heart to hear it, and it would break mine twice. Once because I would have to tell it to her and again because I would have to retell myself. "It'll be alright because I'm gonna get my meds in an hour and then I'll get a good night's sleep and then I'll have radiation and I'll feel better right away. All of the pain and stuff is just temporary. You'll come back tomorrow and you'll see how much better I feel."

"What do you mean when I come back tomorrow?"

"I want you to do me a really big favor and go home for the night. It would make me really happy if you went home and got some rest."

"I'm not going to leave you here."

"You can't stay with me anyway! Just go home, sleep, wash up. You'll come back tomorrow and see how happy you've made me and how much better I am. Go do it for me."

She debates with herself whether or not to do it. "Okay, if it will make you happy I'll go home for the night. But I won't be able to rest knowing that you're here and in pain."

"I'll be fine. I'll take the pills and feel better and then I'll fall asleep and I won't know the difference. Trust me, Carly. I'm going to be okay. Do you have a ride home?"

"Yeah. Sam, Freddie, and Mrs. Benson are still here so she can give me a ride home."

"They came up here?" I ask, thinking of how nice it was for them to be here to keep Carly company. The idea of her being out there alone for hours saddens me.

"Mhmm. Them and Sam, Gibby, and T-Bo. They're all pretty worried about you."

"Well I'm worried about you. So go home and rest and come see me tomorrow. I love you."

"I love you, too."

I open my arms in another attempt to hug Carly. She comes back into my arms and I wrap them around her. If she was allowed I would have her sleep like this with me all night. But it's important for her to go home and rest up.

She gets off the bed and walks slowly to the door. She turns to me one last time. The last time I'll see her for the night. Even though she hasn't showered, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, or changed her clothes in the past two days she still looks beautiful. More beautiful than I've ever seen her before. I always want to remember her in this moment, the maternal look of worry on her pretty young face. She is beautiful.

"Bye, Spencer."

"See ya, kiddo."

She shuts the door behind her. I see her look into the window at me one last time. She would stay there all night and watch over me, but she is going home for me. Her lovely brown eyes disappear; she is gone.

I close my eyes for some rest. I don't move a muscle. I am gone.

**Only a couple chapters left! As always, reviews are appreciated...thanks for reading!**


	12. Back to Black

**Hey! Thanks to everyone that reads/reviews. You're all awesome.**

**To answer your question, endorphins: Yes, Carly & Spencer's dad and granddad will make an appearance in the story. I haven't included their dad in it because he was off doing his work in my head (although I now wish I wrote a chapter about them telling him through Skype or something...but too late for that now lol) and their granddad...well I'm not sure why I didn't write him in somewhere. I suppose he probably could have helped out with things but that's just not the way I wrote it. He really didn't cross my mind in time for me to write him in somewhere where it made sense. Hope I answered your question!**

**CARLY'S POV – Back to Black**

I get off the elevator and walk into the parking garage with Sam, Freddie, and Mrs. Benson. I love that they have come to support me, but I wish they left Mrs. Benson at home. She has been annoying me all day, constantly giving us all hand sanitizer to protect ourselves from the hospital germs. At the start of her day the huge bottle was completely filled—now it's almost to the bottom.

We get into Mrs. Benson's minivan and buckle our seatbelts. Freddie sits in the passenger seat and Sam is in the back with me. We're all tired and I'm really bummed out, so no one talks. We just sit there in silence, which is fine with me.

I need to process everything. Spencer's cancer has spread a lot, but it's nothing the doctors can't fix. _He'll be okay_, I try to tell myself. Why is it so hard to believe?

I don't know why I listened when Spencer told me to go home for the night. I want to scream for Mrs. Benson to turn the car around and take me back to him, but all that will get me is some crazy stares from my peers and Spencer being mad at me, which is something I really want to avoid right now. I wish I never left his side, but it's too late to go back now. I'll go home and wash up and maybe get some rest. It will only be a few hours. That will come super fast and then I'll be able to see Spencer. I'll never leave his side again.

We pull into the Bushwell parking garage and soon we are in the lobby together, heading up to the eighth floor. Freddie and Mrs. Benson stand in their doorway; Sam is going to spend the night with me. Mrs. Benson asks me if we're going to be alright and if we need anything. I tell her no. She gives me a hug; next Freddie gives me a hug and tells me to get some rest, everything will be fine and he'll drive me to see Spencer in the morning. With that they are in their apartment and I am entering mine.

"I hope you don't mind I've been hanging out here the past couple of days. My mom has been driving me crazy."

"That's fine," I tell her absentmindedly.

"I cleaned up Spencer's puke in his room and in the bathroom. It's the least I can do after all he's done for me."

I think that's sweet of her—and surprising that she actually cleaned something—but I don't say so. I sit on the couch, thinking to myself. Sam comes over and sits next to me, putting her arm around me.

"Hey, kid. You alright?"

I shake my head.

"I know that you're scared. All of this really sucks. But just think—in a few hours you will see him again and he'll be okay. Am I right?"

"I guess so."

"Of course I'm right. Now give Mama a big 'ol hug," she says goofily, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me tight, trying to cheer me up. I don't really hug her back; I'm just not in the mood to be comforted, though I desperately need to be. "Good," she says after she lets go. "Now go take a shower 'cuz you stink. And then go to sleep 'cuz you look like hell and you need some rest. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thanks for staying with me, Sam."

"What kind of best friend would I be if I didn't?"

I smile and don't say anything else. I climb the stairs to go take a shower. I can tell it will be a long one full of deep thinking. I'm hoping it will pass the time. I just want to see Spencer.

Only a few more hours. That is the thought that holds me over.

* * *

The next morning I am ready to leave promptly at nine, though I've been ready all night.

I slept soundly for three hours, but was interrupted by a terrible nightmare in which I was trying to get to Spencer but a thousand obstacles stood between me and the hospital bed.

But it's alright now—in just a short amount of time I'll be at Spencer's bedside once again. I can picture it now: he'll smile so big at me. He'll be so happy to see me, sorta well rested and clean. He'll be doing much better than last night. The medication and the sleep will have done him wonders. He'll wrap me up in a huge hug and this time it won't hurt him. I can hardly wait.

Sam and I meet Freddie in the hallway. Mrs. Benson is allowing Freddie to take her minivan to the hospital so we can see Spencer. Freddie convinced her not to go with us, but she still gives Freddie a brand new bottle of hand sanitizer. He sets it on Lewbert's desk when we reach the lobby.

We get in the car and drive to the hospital. The drive seems extra long today. Freddie turns on the radio; "You Make My Dreams" is playing. This is my happy song. I can tell that today is going to be a good day.

After what seems like an eternity we finally pull into the parking garage at the hospital. I am the first to exit the vehicle; I run to the elevator as Sam and Freddie catch up to me and hit the level 5 button multiple times in excitement. I can't wait to see my big brother, all happy to see me and doing better.

Like the car ride, the elevator ride seems to take extra long as well. Finally the door opens and I run to the front desk.

"Hi, I'm here to see Spencer Shay. I'm his sister," I tell the receptionist with a smile. Freddie and Sam are at my side.

"Okay," she says as she types on the computer. She looks at her screen, then looks at me all serious. "Have a seat in the waiting area, miss. Someone will come to get you shortly."

I was expecting her to let me go to Spencer's room, but he's probably in the middle of a check-up or radiation or something.

I go back to the waiting area, practically my home over the past three days. I sit in my usual chair and Sam and Freddie sit on either side of me. They are playing on their phones and I am staring at the TV, once again not really paying attention. I am tapping my foot, getting impatient at waiting to see him. Screw the waiting area.

"Carly?" I hear a woman say. I whip my head around. It is Dr. Welsh. She looks rather serious, but I am too excited to think anything of it.

"Dr. Welsh! Are you gonna take me to see Spencer?"

She doesn't answer my question. "Come with me, please."

I follow her down the hallway to a small room with a desk. Papers are neatly stacked in separate piles on the desk. It looks very orderly. This must be Dr. Welsh's office.

"Have a seat," she motions at the comfy-looking chair facing the desk. I sit in it and she sits behind the desk, moving a stack out of the way so she can see me better.

"So when can I see Spencer? I've been waiting all night to see him."

Dr. Welsh folds her hands and places them on her desk. She looks at me but doesn't speak right away. It's driving me crazy—why hasn't she taken me to see him yet?

She finally opens her mouth to speak, "Carly, this is never easy to say...but something has happened that I'm going to tell you now."

A knot forms in my stomach. "Is the radiation not working? Is he in a lot of pain? Let me see him."

She shakes her head at my questions. "Spencer passed away this morning." She is looking me in the eyes. She didn't just say that. I heard her wrong. Did I?

"What did you just say?" I squeak.

"I'm so sorry. He was so weak last night and the cancer spread too much. The surgery and the medicine just weren't enough. He was too weak and he gave out around 5 this morning. I'm so sorry," she sympathizes, pushing a box of tissues toward me.

My world falls apart. I tell myself that it's just another nightmare, but I know that it's not. I am waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out from under the desk and tell me it's a prank, but I know that he won't.

I start to get angry and shake my head, "No, no, no. Spencer can't be dead. He can't be! Last night he told me he would be better today! He was going to be okay, what did you do to him?!" Dr. Welsh says nothing, letting me get it all out of my system. I am in denial. Spencer can't be dead.

My anger turns to heartbreak. My heart has just shattered beyond repair. I skip the light crying and start to violently sob. I can't breathe I'm crying so hard. My chest heaves and I hyperventilate. Dr. Welsh kneels down beside me and rubs my back, trying to soothe me. I turn to her and she puts her arms around me. I need a good hug, but it does nothing for me.

"We can get you in touch with a nice funeral home," she tells me. Why would she think it's a good time to say that? It makes me feel even worse.

I get up from my chair and find my way back to the waiting area through my tears. Sam and Freddie are sitting where I left them, chatting and keeping each other busy. They immediately spring up out of their seats when they see me.

"What's wrong?" they ask me as I run into both of their arms and cry.

"He's dead," I say into Freddie's shoulder over and over again. Although my voice is muffled they know exactly what I'm saying. I repeat the same phrases into his shoulder for the next few minutes: "He was supposed to be okay", "I need to see him", and "What will I do" are just a few examples.

Minutes later I pull away from them. They are both crying.

"I'm so sorry," Sam tells me through her tears. I rarely ever see Sam cry.

I drop into a chair and put my face in my hands. How will I live without him? How did this happen? Why did it happen to him? I curse God. He doesn't deserve to die from such a terrible disease at thirty years old! He was the sweetest person anyone's ever met and he's dead now. I can't stop crying. I won't ever stop crying for him.

My Spencer. My brother. Why why why why why. He's gone. I won't ever stop crying for him. He'll never leave me.

**I know what you're thinking: how could I kill Spencer off? I know it's depressing and I would never really want Spencer to die, (like EVER) but for my own creative purposes he does in this story. It's not ideal or the happy ending you were probably hoping for, but I promise the final chapter (the next one!) won't end all depressing. My apologies for ending the chapter on such a sad note, but I hope you still like the story despite what has occurred. Thanks for reading & please review.**


	13. To Know Him is to Love Him

**Sorry it took so long for me to get this up! I suck. I lost my flash drive for awhile and it finally turned up today. I was so excited, I literally screamed! So hooray, here's the last chapter :) Thanks for reading and/or reviewing, all that stuff means a lot to me. I'm taking a little break from writing because of school, work, etc., but I will be continuing with my writing as soon as I can, so keep your eye out for me!**

**One more thing on this chapter: I know I sorta gave off the impression that this chapter wouldn't be sad...but I lied. It's kinda sad, but also happy-ish. You'll see.**

**Ahh, one final note: Earlier I mentioned that all the chapters were songs by a specific artist...that would be Amy Winehouse, my favorite :) In case you were wondering lol ;)**

**Okay, now I'm really done! Thanks again! xo**

**CARLY'S POV**

It's been a week since Spencer's been gone. It is the morning of his funeral. I am a wreck. My days have been filled with crying and funeral planning; my nights have been filled with nightmares. Sam has been staying at the loft with me and Freddie comes over every day to comfort and help me, but it doesn't make me feel much better. Lately they have been displaying the same worry for me that Spencer did all the time when he was sick. I want things to be normal again. I want Spencer back at home with me, but instead his lifeless body is lying in a cooler at the funeral home. The image makes me cry some more.

My dad arrived home last night. Upon hearing the news he was given a few days off of work. I always pictured his coming home would be joyous, but it is the exact opposite. He is just as upset as I am, if not more. He is staying in Spencer's bedroom, but he hasn't come out since he got home. I heard him up all night, distraught and torn apart. I feel bad for myself, but even more so for him. He didn't even get to see Spencer one last time before he passed. The last time he saw him alive was years ago. The first time he will see him dead is today at the funeral.

Per Spencer's wishes, we didn't have a wake. He's always said that they're creepy and he doesn't understand the need for them. But the funeral must go on, no matter how much I would rather stay in bed all day.

I drag myself out of bed and decide to make myself look presentable since I am giving a speech today. I take a shower and put on my best black lacy dress. I fix my hair and makeup as best as I can, but it still looks pretty terrible. No amount of makeup can cover up the damage that a week's worth of crying and exhaustion have done.

I go downstairs to see my father, Gibby, Freddie, and even T-Bo in their black suits. Sam and Mrs. Benson are wearing black dresses. Sam's dress looks like it could be in an issue of Teen Vogue. Mrs. Benson's dress makes her look like a politician.

"You ready, sweetheart?" my father asks me, his tiredness written all over his face.

I nod my head and we all get on the elevator. No one speaks.

There is a limo belonging to the funeral home waiting for us outside. We all get in. Still no one speaks. There is a solemn mood floating in the air; invisible black clouds are hanging over each of our heads. It is a terrible day and we all want to go home.

We arrive at the funeral home and get out of the car. One at a time we go in the doors. There are already a few people here. I recognize a handful of Spencer's art school friends, I spot a few distant relatives, and I see a bunch people that I have never seen before. More people have yet to arrive. This just shows how much Spencer is loved.

I look down the aisle. I see a casket sitting at the end. I know that Spencer's corpse lies in there. I don't want to look.

My eyes scan the rest of the room. It is decorated with red roses and a few of Spencer's sculptures—like his robot, the video squirrel, and the Merry Sniffmas tree—that I gave to the funeral home to put on display. I know that Spencer would want them here so people could admire his life's work. If only he could have had more time in his career. I guarantee that he would have become the biggest name in art since Alexander Calder.

I take a seat up front with my dad on one side of me and Sam on the other. I stare at the casket. I can't bring myself to go look inside. I want to say goodbye to him, but I'm not brave enough to do it.

Sam gets up after a minute and walks over to his casket. She stares down at him for awhile, silently communicating with him. I see her hand reach into the casket; she softly touches his bald head one last time and tells him goodbye before coming back over to sit by me again.

My dad finally works up the courage to go see him. He stands above the casket, but doesn't look down at first. When he finally does, I see him cringe a little bit. The last time my dad saw him he was healthy, tanned, and had a head full of brown hair. He was alive. Now he's lying there pale, bald, and gaunt. He is dead. My father puts covers his face, shielding his eyes from the sight of lifeless son. His only son. His firstborn. He uncovers his face and brings his pointer and his middle finger to his mouth. He kisses his fingers and reaches them into the casket, planting them softly on him. One last kiss to his boy. He slowly turns and comes back to his seat beside me. He puts his hand on my knee. I'm next.

I stand and nervously walk to the casket. Spencer is in there. A week ago I so desperately wanted to see him. Now I want to run the other way. Seeing his dead body will make me break down all over again. I don't want to do this, but I need to say goodbye.

I approach the coffin and look inside. He looks almost exactly the same as the last time I saw him, if not a little more pale. His hands are resting on his belly, folded perfectly. He looks so peaceful. I hope it's that way in the afterlife. I picture him looking down on me and I feel a little better. I know he can see me. I reach down and put my hand on his one last time. I keep it there for a moment, hoping that somehow it will bring him back to life. When I realize that it's not happening I put my hand back at my side. "Goodbye, big brother. I love you," I whisper to him. I know he can hear me.

I return to my seat. Soon every seat in the room is filled. Some people are even standing in the back. The owner of the funeral home comes out from the back; it is time for the service to begin.

The funeral director reads a few passages from the Scriptures and says a few prayers, directed at the casket. Soon he announces that if anyone would like to say a few words about Spencer they are welcome to at this time.

My dad is the first to rise from his seat. He makes his way up to the podium and looks out into the crowd of people with his sad, vacant eyes. He gathers his thoughts before speaking. "Spencer was a very special young man. He was my firstborn. He and his sister are the greatest joys in my life," he clears his throat. "Spencer was always so full of fun and mischief. I'll always remember him as the little energetic boy he was, cracking jokes at the wrong time. He could always make me laugh. When his sister was born Spencer became the best assistant his mother and I could have asked for. He helped raise her and in that way has made me prouder then he'll ever know," his voice cracks. "Over the past few years I have been away from my children. This is something I will regret for the rest of my life. I have learned through this experience that every moment counts. I wish that I was here to spend more time with Spencer before he was taken too soon, but I will always cherish the times that I spent with him so very much." He turns toward the coffin, "Spencer, my son. I want you to know that I am so, so proud of you. I'm proud of how you've taken care of Carly, your art, and the amazing man that you grew to be. I love you so much. Goodbye, my son." My dad returns next to me. He is shaking and wiping tears from his eyes. I reach over and give him a hug. I am crying as well. I'm sure everyone in the room is.

I shift my attention back to the podium and see that Sam is up next. "Uh, hi. My name is Sam and I'm Carly's best friend. Spencer is the greatest guy I've ever known. And I'm not just saying that. I never knew my father nor had any other inspirational father figure in my life. But Spencer was that guy that I always looked up to. He always welcomed me into his home and gave me advice. He treated me like his second little sister, and I'll always be grateful for that. I learned from Spencer to always keep the fun in your life and to take things as they go. I also learned from him to keep flammable objects out of the house," she adds, looking over at Freddie and me. We all smile for a moment, recalling the many instances that he started fires in the house. Keep flammable objects out of the house, indeed. "Anyways, I love you, Spencer. Thanks for always looking out for me. And put in a word with the big Guy for me—I have a feeling I'll be needing it." Sam comes back to her seat and I hug her. There will be many more hugs today.

A few more people go up to the podium and offer a few words for Spencer. Socko, Granddad, our Aunt Sharon, an old friend from high school, one of Spencer's former art teachers, and even Harry Joyner—who I know Spencer would be thrilled to find out came to his funeral—are among them.

When everyone else seems to be done I make my way to the podium. It's my time to shine. Or rather crash and burn. I take a deep breath and look around at all of the people that have showed up to mourn Spencer. It warms my heart how many people I see. "Hi, everyone. Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me to see how many people cared for my brother, Spencer. Spencer has always been the number one man in my life—I hope I don't offend you, Dad, but he really was. My dad has always been involved with his career and when he left years ago, Spencer was the one that took care of me. He raised me, taught me right from wrong, and gave me advice. He always comforted me, cared for me, and scolded me. He almost killed me a couple of times, but he didn't and that's the important thing. I didn't have a mother or a father in my life, but I had a Spencer. And truthfully that's all I needed. Spencer showed me what it means to be a good person and what it means to be happy in your life. I'll always love him and remember him for that," I pause. "A couple months ago when we found out that Spencer had cancer my whole world was turned upside down. Watching him fall apart is and will continue to be the worst thing I've ever had to go through. Even while he was suffering so much he still only worried about me. I always came first in his life, even through this terrible time. He was truly a selfless person that put others before himself. This terrible disease claimed his young life way too soon. There is much in his life that is unfinished—things that will never happen that should. I will be sad about that for the rest of my life, but I am going to go on with mine in his spirit. His spirit that is so joyful, selfless, goodhearted and a little crazy. I will never forget what he has taught me. And I will always love him." I turn myself towards the coffin, "Spencer, you're the best big brother I could ever ask for. I'll always love you. Goodbye." I return to my seat to my dad's open arms. I weep on his shoulder. All of that came to my head so effortlessly, yet it was so hard to say it. I feel like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I have closure.

The funeral director comes back to the podium, says a few more words, and dismisses us for the burial service. As people file out of the funeral home, "In My Life" is playing in the background on the speakers. My group returns to our limo while the rest of the guests get into their own cars or one of the funeral home's cars.

Spencer is being buried at the cemetery behind St. Schneider Church. We all arrive there at about the same time. His coffin is being carried by members of the funeral home. We all gather around a large rectangular hole in the ground. The closed coffin is set right beside it.

The funeral director says some more prayers and words of farewell. Everyone in attendance says their silent final goodbyes. When it is time his casket is lowered into the ground. Everyone is given a rose and throws it into the hole so it is resting on top of the coffin. Some people, like me, are crying and some are just frozen. I think everyone here is shocked that this is even happening. But it is. What's done is done.

Members of the funeral home shovel dirt into the hole to fill it up. It's finally time to realize that he really is gone. This seals the deal. He is now buried in the ground. He's gone.

The funeral director ends the burial and people start to leave. The crowd of people surrounding the now filled hole where he lies in his coffin is thinning. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and see that it's Socko. I hardly recognize him in a suit.

"Oh, hi, Socko."

"Hey, Carly. I'm really sorry about Spence," he says, giving me a hug.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too," I say as we pull apart. "I know he was, like, your best friend."

"True story. It's a huge bummer," he says sadly looking down at the ground. "So, hey. I have something for you," he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blank CD case with a disc inside. "Spence wanted me to give this to you."

He hands it to me. "What is it? When did he give this to you?"

"I don't know. Some kind of DVD, I guess. He made me promise not to watch it or he'd kick my ass. I keep my promises. But he gave it to me about a month ago, I think. Probably a little more. Something like that."

"That's really weird," I say as I turn the case around in my hands, looking to see if there's any writing on it or anything. "But thank you."

"No problem, Carly. You take care. Call anytime you need me. I'm here for you, shortcake."

"I didn't know that was my nickname, but thanks for that."

He gives me a little backwards wave and goes to his car. I find my dad and everyone else standing by the limo. They motion for me to come so we can leave.

I look one last time at the freshly buried grave where my brother lies. Goodbye, Spencer. What's done is done.

* * *

Later that night I am holding the disc that Socko gave me in my hands. I was waiting for Sam and my dad to fall asleep before I play it. Now that they're both out like lights, I am sitting with it in my bedroom. My laptop is in my lap, ready to play my disc. I wonder what this could be. Why would Spencer give Socko a DVD to give to me? It doesn't make any sense to me.

I pop it in the disc drive. My computer asks me if I want to play the video and I click 'yes'. Spencer's face shines on my screen. He looks pretty good compared to what I saw last week. He has hair and he isn't as thin and pale. He looks almost the same as he did before we found out he had cancer. His image scares me a little bit, but makes me feel safe at the same time.

He starts to speak and I already start to cry. "Hey, kiddo. If you're watching this…well, you know what that means. So I hope you never have to watch this, but if you do here are some things I just wanted to say that I know I wouldn't get the chance to say if I did this any other way. Phew, that was a long and weird sentence. But here it goes: Over the last few years—not just that, but over the course of your lifetime—you have brought me so much happiness. You're the greatest thing that's been in my life and the person I love the most. You are so sweet, smart, funny, and such a little adorable weirdo. You light up my life. Thank you for being my little sister and thank you for being you," his eyes fill with tears. "I'm so sorry that I can't be with you anymore. You have no idea how much the idea of leaving you hurts me. I want so badly to see you grow up and be successful and be happy. The fact that that can be taken away from me is the worst part of being sick. I'm so, so sorry that I can't be with you in person anymore. But always know that I am there with you at all times, no matter what. Know that when you graduate this May I will be up on the stage with you when you are accepting your diploma. When you go off to college and you're nervous on your first day, I'll be sitting in your first class with you. When you're getting married, I will be walking you down the aisle. When you're scared I'm there to comfort you. When you're happy I'm there laughing with you. Whenever you need me I'm there for you to talk to. I'm there in your heart. I love you, kiddo. And never, ever forget that I will always be there." He wipes the tears from his eyes and turns off the camera. That's the end of his farewell video to me. I'm crying and I can't stop. I can't believe that he did this, and I'm so grateful that he did.

I rewatch it and cry some more. I rewatch it again and again and again. I rewatch it practically all night. The words that stick with me are his last words: _I will always be there._ I picture him sitting next to me right now. My heart starts to repair itself because I know that he will always be there.

Spencer will always be there. Thank you, Spencer.


End file.
